Odds
by emcewan
Summary: In which John Blake meets a kindred spirit and Bane begins to realize that not all the people of Gotham will take what he dishes out lying down. Blake/OC, angst, violence, and general noir-ness aplenty.
1. Prologue

I simply couldn't resist writing a Batman fic after seeing Dark Knight Rises twice in the theatres already. I am still writing on my Phantom of the Opera stories, but inspiration hit for this one. Please review and let me know how I did; John Blake is a fun, but difficult character to write.

As always, anything copyrighted belongs to whomever it is copyrighted to. I make no money off of this-all of my profit is immaterial. (coughreviewscough). This disclaimer goes for all chapters in this story so I don't have to keep writing the damn thing hahahaha.

* * *

The first time he sees her, she's running.

Her hair reminds him of the sunset—what was probably once vibrant red fading into deep pink and oranges, pale blonde flashing through, dark underneath. The look on her face is intense fury, red knit beanie crushed into her small hands. She's so short, she almost resembles a midget when she runs. It should be comical. And yet, the expression on her blurry face...

It's then he realizes that she's _chasing_ someone.

He decides what the hell, to go see what's going on. It seems as though she's running pellmell after a guy who's big enough to break her in half. He frowns, wondering what the _fuck_ is going on. He vaguely hears his partner call out to him, but ignores him. He's _interested_.

He appreciates with some surprise that the girl can _run_. She's having to work twice as much to catch her prey because of her short legs, but her pace never falters, never slows. She gracefully ducks and weaves through pedestrians on the crowded sidewalks, just managing to avoid clipping oblivious businessmen in expensive suits. Her Converse pound inexorably against the pavement like the gavel of Judgment Day, black-and-white blurs. He's beginning to be a little impressed.

He picks up his pace, sensing a confrontation is coming soon. The large man stops in a back-alley, snarling, his chest heaving. The girl's breathing hard too, but breathes deeply, controls it. He waits around the corner, hand resting on his gun. He wants to see what this is about.

"_You sick god damn sonuvabitch_," she hisses venomously.

"No... proof..." the man heaves, sneering.

"_**CHILD MOLESTER!**_" she shouts, furious.

"My little girl lying to you again? Gonna have to teach her what happens when she _lies_."

"The _bruises on her arms_ don't _lie_, Mister Cameron. _She's told me what happens!_"

"Hey, you're just some crazy bitch, nobody's going to bel-"

"Then why did you _run_?" she spat out, voice cold as the bottom of hell. "Why did you bolt when I told you that she wasn't leaving with you, that I'd _called the police, that CPS was on the way_? Why did you run like the hulking _coward_ that you are? _There are you safe houses for men like you_. Not anymore. Not now, not even if you knew old Maroni himself."

Slowly, he takes his gun out. It's obvious the accusations the girl is firing off like bullets are true; the man wouldn't have run if they weren't, like she said. And there's something in his _voice_...

"Yeah, that's right," he grinned sickly. "Such a pretty little girl her whore of her mother left me with, I oughta get _something_ out of her for takin' care of the brat. And if she won't give it to her _daddy_, then I'll just take it from _you_, nosy cunt. You shoulda stayed outta my family's business. If I'm going down, I'll take you with me _first._"

"She's _eight years old_," she replies, voice strangled with grief and rage. "And if the courts don't convict you, I'll _kill you myself_. _**Do you understand me?**_"

The threat is a promise. Her voice is low, eerily calm, like the deep breath before the storm breaks. He decides to intervene; he's heard enough.

"GOTHAM PD! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST FOR CHILD MOLESTATION!"

Stunned, the two turn to look at him as he walks down the alley, gun drawn, knuckles white to keep from shooting the monster-man on sight. He sees the girl watching him in wonder, like he's a fucking _hero_, and she's got green, green eyes. She puts the pieces together, smiles.

"It's good to know the police already got the report I filed with CPS," she murmured, a hint of a weary smile in her voice, husky like good bourbon ought to be.

He smiles at her, just slightly, but it's more than most people have gotten in a long, long time. It's _real_.

The alleyway is washed in blue and red light, the familiar _boop-boop_ of sirens chiming like a cavalry horn. The man, Max Cameron, is still in too much shock to fight the smaller cop. Its surreal, the reality of the consequences he never thought he'd have to deal with. Back in _his_ day, stuff like this had never been reported to the cops. Before _fucking Dent_, the Narrows had kept to itself. His dad had gotten away with it... why hadn't _he?_

Blake is glaring at him, the lines around his eyes tight with an anger that he could never shake. The girl is watching him with careful, knowing eyes. They soften, catching his darker ones for a moment. She places a gentle, warm hand on his arm. It's not a request to lower the gun; it's not even a silent reprimand for his anger. It's just a simple human touch that tells him it's okay. It's okay to be angry, okay to know its settled into your bones. It's _okay_.

He doesn't lower his gun—he doesn't even change his stance. But some of the tension in him drains out for the first time in he can't remember how long, and it's _nice_. Her face is understanding, wise. _She really does understand_, he realizes. She _gets it._

His partner—who was smart, and actually _drove—_watches in amazement as the hulking man is forced into handcuffs and wrangled into the backseat. He opens his mouth to ask, then closes it, shaking his head. No doubt he'll hear all about it on the way back; John Blake isn't _that_ hot-headed, and a warrant for a child molester has just been put out...

"Thanks," she murmurs, looking exhausted.

"No problem," Blake smiles back. "It's my job."

_She's beautiful_, he thinks suddenly. Standing there, he's reminded of a Valkyrie; not that she looked like one, except for the way she held herself, with rare dignity and quiet, unshakeable conviction...

"No it's not," she replies, those green eyes of hers older than her young face. "You could've minded your business, and I probably would be dead right now. You're a good man. Don't let this city take that from you."

She's earnest, he can tell. Sincere. She's trying to tell him something, and he thinks he understands. There's been peace for a long time, but that nagging feeling of foreboding is creeping back again. This unnatural lack of crime can't possibly last for much longer. Gotham wouldn't allow it.

"I'll try, Miss..?"

He wants her name. She opens her mouth to reply, but her cell chimes with an incoming call. He's surprised by the ringtone; he recognizes it somewhere as a song that's very old. It's a classier song, belonging to a classier time. Very little about this girl—young woman? It was impossible to try and guess how old she was, she looked barely older than eighteen—was typical or easily identifiable. Her face turned pale, color draining. She spoke a few words tersely, biting them off.

"I'm sorry, Officer," she sighed regretfully, already shifting on her aching legs. "There's been an emergency. The monster's daughter... I've got to go."

"I could drop you off..." he offered. She shook her head firmly.

"No, thank-you. There's not enough room, and he needs to go to jail. Watch out for his right hook, by the way."

She was already sprinting off, legs pumping. He stared for a moment longer than necessary, then shook his head, climbing next to his partner. The Asian man raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue.

"So... she was pretty."

"She was, wasn't she?" Blake smiled to himself.

He doubted he would ever see her again, the strangely fierce young woman who had chased a man for a city block, knowing she would probably die when it ended. Later, he learned he'd missed her coming down to the station and filing a report. He didn't mind; her words about a storm bothered him though. It nagged at him, made him focus aware of just how much it was being said lately. Quietly, he researched as much as he could in preparation for that storm, worked out his body and mind more than ever. The rest, he'd decided, he could deal with as he went.

And three months later, Bane brought everything to hell.


	2. Chapter 1

The REAL first chapter of Odds. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Dear Lord, Bane and Blake MADE the movie for me. Oh, here there be spoilers for DKR: ye have been warned. Please let me know if you liked it!

* * *

She shivered in the freezing air, dancing a little from foot to foot. Wrapping the threadbare coat that had definitely seen better days around her small frame, she longed for the hot, terrible coffee she was used to. Still, they were getting low on food, and times were desperate. Coffee, and warmth, could wait.

"Mistletoe?" a thin, nervous-looking man whispered hesitantly.

"Santa?" she replied warily.

Relief flooded his drawn, pinched face. His eyes darting to check the surroundings, he beckoned her to follow him. She did, fingering the switchblade in her left pocket, keeping a lookout. Bane's men were everywhere these days, it seemed. Finally, after several tense minutes down a winding labyrinth of alleys and broken buildings, he led her to the stash of food. Thanking him and pushing a bottle of prescription drugs into his hands, she hastily stuffed the food into the large canvas bag she'd brought. She forced it to all fit, mentally preparing to come back later when her supplier was in a drug-induced stupor to get the rest. She'd never be able to tell anyone else how to get there—she was shit with directions—but she remembered the landmarks well enough. The water, especially, was going to be needed soon; the Markowitz girl was going to into labour soon...

With that thought, she hurried back.

* * *

When Bane had destroyed the stadium and broken out the prisoners of Blackgate, she had been one of the few people who had fled not to the rich neighborhoods to plunder, but to the Narrows. Even after the Dent Act, nobody wanted to live in the Narrows unless they had to. It had been a painful, long process of cleaning it up and turning it from a run-down slum into something slightly better, but she'd known it was the perfect place to batten down. Nobody had wanted to be there when there weren't other options; now that anarchy had made other options available, the Narrows had more or less emptied. The first people she'd seen on the snowy streets had been a kind family who were being hunted for making too much money. It had infuriated her, set her aflame with the sheer injustice of it all, the apathy for human life that ran so brazenly rampant in the streets. She had realized that she couldn't live with herself if she didn't do something. They were the first of many, now.

She'd brought people here as much as she could over the last few weeks of murderous chaos; word had spread quietly through the sane that they could find food and shelter with the ruler of the Narrows. The first few days, she'd been sure Bane's men would storm it and drag her to the mockery of a court. Now, while that fear still made her paranoid, it didn't paralyze her.

She couldn't let it. Too many people were depending on her now.

Foods and resources she was starting to delegate to the few others she trusted could handle the daunting task. Now... now she was slipping away more and more to fight back.

Bane wanted to 'give the power back to the people'? Let's see how he liked a dose of his own medicine.

The only problem was that almost every beat cop in the city was buried underground. Not all of them, mind you, but the god damn majority. She'd tried to hunt down some vice members, some detectives... hell, even a police academy _trainee_ would be welcome right about now. So far, they'd either been murdered or were laying low. She couldn't blame them; most of them had families to take care of. She was edging away from those duties—she wanted to _fight_.

Pasting a smile to her face, she dispersed the food, making sure everyone got enough. She called over Nikolai, a grim Russian immigrant who'd become her right-hand man. She wasn't quite sure when exactly she'd become in charge of these motley, broken men and women, but she'd accepted it wordlessly. If people wanted her to be in charge, then she'd damn well have to—it wasn't like anybody else was going to do it. She didn't see herself as 'the ruler of the Narrows', as she knew she was rumoured to be, but what the hell. She didn't really care what they called her.

"Nikolai!" she called, voice just loud enough to cut through the frightened, tentative chatter.

He saw her, nodding slightly. As he made his way over, she wished she had more men like him there. He was a good man, a strong man. This city, this Bane, had not broken him.

"You are leaving, then? Solnyshko, you should not do this."

She smiled at him, slightly; bearing the teeth in a display that was more defiance than comfort. He frowned, shaking his head. She was lovely, she was strong, she was very kind... and she was so very _angry_. He knew he could not stop her, that no one could stop her. Bane himself could be before her and she would spit in his face. His malen'kii volk would fight for those she cared about, fight for her city. He sighed with a great and terrible weariness.

"You will need men, strong men and strong women to help you. I-"

"No, Nikolai," she was already shaking her head. "I need to know that these people are in good hands. There is no one here that I trust more. I can't do what I need to if I'm constantly worrying about them," she gestured vaguely to the others. "I need _you_ to run things when I'm gone."

Nikolai bowed his head, touched. She did not trust easily in these times. He wondered if she had trusted easily in _any_ times. Her anger was bone-deep; that kind of thing took years, not weeks. He thought maybe she was the kind of woman who would have made a good Batman, if the bastard still existed. She burned for justice, to protect. A small spark to a great flame...

"Alright, malen'kii volk. I will play shepherd to your refugees."

"Thank-you, Nikolai," she nodded, a ghost of a smile flitting across her tired face. "You know... I never asked you what that meant. What _does_ malen'kii volk mean anyways?"

Chucking, he replied, "It means Little Wolf."

"Ah," she smirked. Giving his hand a firm squeeze, she grabbed her coat and calmly made her way into the night.

"Don't die," he murmured after her, his heart clenching at the thought. He cared about her more than he should, he knew that. He also knew that while she saw him as a man, she didn't see him as a _man_ and most likely never would. It stung, but he was Russian, or used to be. Love was for fools and children—it would get him killed during these terrible dark days.

Turning away from the doors that were now barred, he smiled slightly at the sight of children playing, deciding he would make the best of it. He had seen enough of war and death in his life; for now, he would enjoy what meager peace he could find.

* * *

The second time that John Blake saw her it was in an alleyway.

_We've got to stop meeting like this,_ he thought with a mental chuckle.

He saw those green eyes of hers light up as she recognized him the same moment he heard the engines. As the headlights streamed down the darkness, she grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him.

He realized in a heartbeat what she was doing, and he kissed her back with more force, his hands going up to cup her soft, cold face. Her lips were warm and earnest, and he found himself enjoying the kiss more than he had to. He hadn't kissed a woman for a long time even before Bane, and when her eyes fluttered closed halfway into him kissing her back, he knew it was walking the fine line of being distraction and pleasure for both of them. Breaking for air at the sound of footsteps, she clutched him tightly to her, her pretty face afraid but not weak. He gently took her small hand in his, fingers entwining on their own somehow. As they turned to see who was coming, he stepped in front of her protectively. She gently squeezed his hand, coming to stand beside him.

He understood the message: _whatever is coming, we'll face it together_. It was a little irritating and a little relieving; he wanted to protect her but he appreciated the equal partnership. It was comforting, and any comfort was hard to come by these days.

"What's going on here?" a male voice chuckled sneeringly.

They both tensed, him and her, gripping each other's hand tighter. Blake smiled easily, his mask sliding into place. After just a breathe later, so did hers.

"My wife and I are just passing through, man. We don't want any trouble."

"Wife, huh?" the man with the semi-auto leered, intentions clear.

"Yes," she replied, voice clear and firm, somehow managing to sound soothing. "My husband and I are heading home. I found out I'm pregnant; we were out for food. Is there something wrong?"

He thought of her, just for a flash, round and pregnant and beaming. He ached a little, wanted her to have that chance for a future, not die in a dirty alley by cowardly criminals. The man's face dropped a little as she mentioned the word pregnant, and he rolled his eyes.

"Pretty stupid, eh? Having a baby when the city could end?"

"Life," she stated with sentiment, "is _never_ foolish. Sir."

The man with the gun spat, then turned to his silent compatriots. They climbed back in their vehicle, slowly driving away. Blake didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't let go of his.

"Pregnant, huh?" he asked after a long moment.

"Most men are pretty touchy about that," she shrugged. "It seemed a little cliché, but better than nothing. Hey, are you hungry?"

_Yes. You have no idea._

"I could eat," he shrugged noncommittally.

She tsked, her eyes roaming across his closed expression as though it was an open book to her. He didn't know, maybe it was. She smiled at him, feeling a stupid joy at meeting the handsome hero-cop again, glad to know she could help him.

"Come with me," she tugged him.

She wondered if he realized they were still holding hands, feeding off of each other's warmth. She hoped he didn't let go; she enjoyed the feeling more than she'd enjoyed _anything_ in years, and that was saying something. The silence between them was comfortable, peaceful. Eventually, they made it back to her base as dawn was breaking. She knocked three times, a wary eye peeking out through a small hole in the door that had seen better days.

"Come in!" the old woman ushered them inside, fussing. Almost everyone else was asleep, including Nikolai, which surprised her.

Pushing some hot, poorly-made coffee and stew into their hands, the odd couple ate in silence at a beat up table in the lobby.

"Some operation you got going here," he commented softly.

"Yeah," she grinned wearily. "It is, isn't it? When's the last time you slept?"

"When are you going to tell me your _name_?" he laughed quietly.

She blinked, blushing slightly. He thought it was sort of cute.

"Oh! Um... I'm Alyth Gowan."

"John Blake," he smirked teasingly. She rolled her eyes, but her eyes were bright.

"Come with me," she whispered, pulling him up with her. "I'll find you a place to sleep."

Grateful, he followed her, admiring the ease of leadership she obviously carried. Everyone who saw her smiled at her or thanked her, for food or shelter or just because it was all they _could_ do. As they slowly, achingly, climbed a few flights of stairs, she guided him into a small apartment, into the bedroom to a _real bed_ and more or less pushed him on it, but gently so.

"No one will bother you here," she murmured. "It's not much, but it's the best I can do. There should be enough blankets to keep out the worst chill. Bathroom's straight through that door. I'll be close if you need me, Mister-"

"John," he interrupted her.

He was rewarded with an _almost_ shy smile.

"John," she spoke his name quietly, with the same huskiness she'd had the first time they'd met. It made something clench and unclench pleasantly in his full stomach.

"Thanks," he called out as she closed the door. She inclined her head in response, but said nothing.

Stripping himself out of his dirty shirt and pants, he rummaged around the dresser for a moment, lucking out with some worn, but clean flannel pajamas. He changed into them, more thankful for clean clothes in that moment than he could put into words, climbing into the soft bed. Shivering under the blankets, he soon warmed up, falling into his first deep and deamless sleep in days.

* * *

He woke up blearily the next morning, shifting almost simultaneously from sleep to wakefulness. Stretching, he stood up, grabbing his coat and wrapping it over his pajamas. Yawning, he opened the door to the living room, and saw that Alyth was curled up in a ball on the uncomfortable-looking couch. With a pang of regret, he understood that this was, in fact, _her_ apartment; she had given him her own bed without hesitation or second thought. And, judging from the shivers, most of the better blankets as well.

Wordlessly, he grabbed the blankets off the bed and carefully laid them over her. She snuggled into them almost at once. Smiling slightly, he brushed a lock of soft hair out of her face before turning to the kitchen. He hadn't expected there to be any food in there, but there was a few cans of pork-and-beans, and of course coffee. He was supremely glad to see both.

As the smell of stale coffee filled the small apartment, he watched Alyth wake up. She stretched, groaning as her back popped a few times. Running her hand through her hair, she blinked, realizing she was being watched. A pale blush dusted over her face as she caught sight of his amused face, and grinned despite herself. He handed her a cup of scalding coffee, fingers accidentally brushing over hers, the soft warmth jolting him. Without meaning to, he remembered their kiss and wondered briefly what it would be like if it wasn't to save their lives. He shook it off almost as soon as it came.

"Thanks," she muttered.

The same companionable silence fell. With Alyth, it was peaceful; with others, it had always been stifling or judgmental. He nodded in response.

"How many people do you have here?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"About...fifty to sixty-five now?" she scrunched her eyes up in concentration, nose wrinkling.

"Not bad," he replied, impressed. It was more than he had expected.

"I wish I could do more," she whispered, her eyes growing haunted and angry all at once. He'd seen the same look plenty of times in his own reflection, in the eyes of Gordon. "I want to take the fight to Bane."

"We'd need an army," John argued.

She shook her head, biting her lip slightly. He noticed it probably more than he should have.

"Not necessarily," she said slowly, choosing each word with caution. "Not if we used guerrilla tactics."

"No offense, Alyth, but we'd need more firepower for that. _Any_ firepower."

She liked her name on his lips, she decided as he said it—probably more than she should have.

"The Joker didn't," she replied softly. "Not really. I could probably get my hands on a bazooka, and it's not like Bane has any air support anyways... the whatever-the-hell those camo vehicles are could probably be taken out by a couple of RPG's. Maybe even just a few pounds of dynamite strapped to the undercarriage."

"You've been thinking this out," he stated, not sure if he was should be worried or thrilled that _finally_ someone was speaking his dead language.

"For all that the Joker was a rat-shit psycho... he wasn't stupid. Bane's done it on a much larger scale, of course, but the Joker terrorized the city and kept it under lock and key with a helluva lot less than a fucking _nuclear bomb_. Adopting some of his tactics might not be savory... but they'd probably still _work_. He knew his urban guerrilla terrorism."

John was taken-aback. He'd never considered the _Joker's_ tactics of all things, but Alyth made a good point. Bane was intelligent, yes; he'd give him that. But using the Joker's tactics would probably throw him off a bit—he wouldn't be expecting that from a city that had been _scared to death_ of him.

"A lot of the Joker's men were locked up in Blackgate," John muttered, already running some calculations in his head.

"Yeah, but most of them were crazy—I mean, legitimately so. And... well, let's face it. The Joker isn't going to take Bane possibly killing the Batman lying down. I'm surprised Arkham hasn't already been stormed."

John let out a hard, bitter laugh.

"Even _Bane_ doesn't want the Joker out running around. He doesn't want _that_ kind of crazy, just the French Revolutionist classist crap he keeps spouting off."

"You noticed that too?" she asked quietly. "I was surprised they didn't bust out a guillotine."

The two shared a long glance, new respect for each other blossoming. He looked away first; he wasn't used to someone understanding him as well as Alyth did.

"I could talk to the Commissioner..."

"Gordon's alive?" Alyth breathed, face lighting up with joy.

"Yeah... but we don't have that many people."

Alyth closed her eyes in thought; when she opened them, John could practically see her thoughts racing and tumbling over themselves.

"I might be able to help you with that. I can't promise a lot of quantity, but I _can_ promise quality," she warned. "I've... well to be honest, I've been looking for days, talking to people. I was kind of planning a rebellion anyways," she admitted a little sheepishly.

"Girl after my own heart," he grinned, speaking unthinkingly.

Alyth grinned back, both of their simmering anger eased for the moment. As they both took a long drag of bad coffee, studying each other over the rims of their respective chipped mugs, the rest of the building woke into busy life around them.


	3. Chapter 2

I apologize for the delay! I haven't had access to internet since I last posted on this story. Between a car accident, medical issues, helping a friend move, moving myself... it's been a little hectic hahahaha. Just a heads up, it WILL get MUCH grittier and darker not terribly far down the line. People mentioned in passing may or may not play a HUGE role to the plot. I have a general idea of where I want the story to go and I'm pretty stoked. Also, just in case, I'll probably wait and post 2 chapters at a time. Gives me a chance to make sure everything is flowing cohesively, and waiting to double-post is actually doing great with that. Warning: SEE THE MOVIE _Brick_, also with Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Seriously. I am going to start heavily referencing it and would hate to spoil one of my favorite movies for the uninitiated. I DO plan on replying individually to all of your reviews, which I cherish very dearly. They help motivate me to keep writing, and let me know I'm keeping you guys happy!

* * *

When the occupation of Bane first began, after he'd halfway torn the city to hell, he'd seen people just... walking the streets, before the cold and the misery killed them. Their eyes were the emptiest he'd ever seen, souls broken and littering the roads of Gotham like so much refuse. When the lights went out, he got used to seeing bodies hanging from their living room ceilings. He hadn't understood it then; he still couldn't understand it now, even though hunger and hopelessness had almost broken something in him. But he had kept on to that small, flickering flame of anger and hope—he'd forced himself to believe that dawn was coming. Bane's rule couldn't last forever, one way or another. He knew that, deep in his bones. Why couldn't anyone else see that? How could people let themselves get so beaten down, so _weak_, that death was the only option they thought they had? It infuriated him in his helplessness.

As Alyth led him through the mostly empty streets, they passed by a few such bodies. He stopped, just for a moment, and simply stared. She'd paused, seen the look on his face, the burning in his eyes. Wordlessly, she'd come to stand beside him, taking his cold hand in hers. He found his fingers entwining with hers, chilled flesh warming slowly. It was a small comfort, but one he found stabilized him, grounded him. It kept the darkness at bay for a few precious moments—the darkness both within, as well as without. John Blake was a man well-accustomed to his own demons.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" she sighed. "What people will do, when they have no hope. Bane has robbed them of that, the weak. He's preying on them like a cancer."

"I don't know if Batman is alive or dead," he admitted. It felt like such an awful betrayal to say such a thing, but it was a truth he'd carried by himself for too long. Gordon didn't know that Batman might be _dead—_just that he might be _gone_. John thought maybe he couldn't process the idea yet, even though he'd practically spelled it out for the Commissioner.

He turned his face slightly to look at her. As she squeezed his hand, she gave him the gentlest, most biting smile he'd ever seen outside of his own reflection.

"Then they'll have to make do with us instead. You're a good man, John Blake. The city hasn't taken that from you, Bane hasn't taken that from you... don't take it from yourself. We're going to _fight_."

"Even if we lose?" he cracked a small smile.

"Maybe _especially_ if we lose," she chuckled bitterly. "There's twelve thousand people in Gotham, give or take. I believe that if we can show them that there is _hope_, then we'll _have_ our army."

He kept the small smile, shaking his head slightly. What a fierce, brave Valkyrie this creature named Alyth Gowan was...

"We might not make it," he slid his gaze to hers, dark eyes growing somber.

She hesitated, just for a heartbeat. He squeezed her hand in reassurance, and as he did, a strange steel flickered in her eyes, hardening them. She had obviously realized that well before he dared to put the thought into words. It was a relief to admit that out loud to someone else—to someone who could _handle_ it. He was coming to the conclusion that Alyth could take the knowledge of their own mortality better than most cops he'd worked a beat with before... before _everything_.

"It's not the _act_ of death that frightens me, I think. Eventually, there _will_ be an end. It's what lies _after_ that I'm afraid of, John. What might be waiting there for me. But... I won't let good men like you stand alone. I _can't_. We're in this together. Even if this road we're taking leads to death... I can't bring myself to regret it. People need hope that there will be an end to this devastation, this _madness_. I want to help you give them that... even if it costs me everything," she stated softly, firmly.

"Then let us make sure that you don't have to fear that _after_," he said simply, gently tugging her.

Taking the lead again, Alyth quietly led him on. Stopping to avoid the patrols of Bane's men or the mobs, quiet solitude fell over them like shadows. He mulled over her words, hearing the echo of his own thoughts in there. Hope was as vital to human beings as air or food or water; losing that meant losing their faith, their spirit. He wanted to give the people of Gotham that _will_ again.

_You're a good man, John Blake._

"You've said that to me before, you know. That I'm a good man."

She blinked, not expecting the abrupt change from the comfortable quiet that always seemed to find them. It was peaceful, she recognized. Peaceful to have your masks stripped away for a few precious moments; peaceful to be _yourself_.

"I know. I remember," she rolled her eyes. "It hasn't changed since then."

"How do you know?" he persisted, stopping so she faced him. "How do you know that I haven't changed since Bane brought the city to its knees?" He was genuinely curious about the faith, the trust, she'd placed in him. It was a unique sensation; nobody trusted the angry kid in a boys home, the hotheaded cop who looked for trouble because his gut told him to. Even Gordon didn't trust him as completely as she did; sometimes, he thought the older man still looked at him and saw just a rookie with good instincts.

Softly, slowly, as if he might break under the slightest pressure, her small free hand came up to cup his cheekbone, right under his eye. Her touch was ghostly, the tiniest whisper of sensation. His stomach again clenched and unclenched, not from hunger, but from some pleasure he didn't think he'd ever felt before he met her. It was like the phantom sensation from an infinitely slowly regrowing limb or emotion; he wasn't sure yet whether he liked it or not.

"I know, John Blake, because _you_ are _not_ the city, and no amount of Banes could bring you to your _knees_. There is no force on earth that can break you unless you let it. I see it in your eyes, in the lines around your mouth and forehead when you look at those poor bastards rotting in the snow. I see it in the mask you slide on when you smile and tell people it's going to be okay. You're _angry_, John, angry and furious that this city—_our_ city—is crumbling into violence and moral decay. You've been angry for a long, long time now. And you know what?"

She got into his face, those green, green eyes of her searing into him, pulling out that certain darkness that had settled into his marrow all those years ago and never left. Her breath came out in puffs like dragon smoke, smelling faintly of cheap mint toothpaste. It was electrifying, like getting tased without shitting yourself or the pain.

"_I'm angry too._ And I've _been_ angry for a long time. I know you because I know what it feels like to want to _shake people_, to take everything into your own hands and onto your own shoulders because you _know_ you're strong enough to take it—to _bear it_. I know what it's like to wonder if this anger, this simmering awful anger that sometimes frightens you, to wonder if sometimes _it's the only way you feel __alive_. I've _been_ there, John. I'm _still_ there. People like us—we don't _change_. We _can't_. All we can do is try to change the world around us. And if we can't do _that_... then we'll do what we can for as long as we can, probably after a lot of other people have given up."

He was close enough to kiss her, he thought distantly. He again remembered their kiss in the alleyway, how soft her lips had been and how sweet she'd tasted. Their hands were gripping the other with white knuckles, both of them stiff with tension, as though if they let go they would drown. She looked into his eyes, and he thought maybe he wasn't the only one remembering their hasty, desperate kiss. He was frozen, her words tumbling over themselves in his mind. _I'm angry too._

And then she stepped back, out of his personal space. Her grip on his hand relaxed, his following a moment afterwards. She turned her face from him, angling her body away just enough to give him some room to breathe, to think, in whatever peace there still existed. Mulling over their own thoughts, they carried on. An hour of walking passed, then another. He waited patiently to see where they were going, keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings. It seemed that she was taking him the long way around, looping back and around people they'd rather not tangle with. Finally, as his legs were starting to ache and he was wondering where the hell they were going—they were in _deep_ Narrows now—she paused, jerking her head. He recognized the buildings they were approaching as part of a small medical compound close to Arkham Asylum. It seemed important, he vaguely remembered. He'd been here before. Alyth turned to him, nodding towards the rusted gate.

"There's some junkies in there, but a lot of medical students from GU did internship here and Nikolai showed me how to slip between the fence. It's hidden behind a dumpster."

He nodded, their grip breaking apart as they walked to the large metal box. He gagged for a moment at the awful smell, coughing into his sleeve. Her face had paled, turning a little green, but she'd dealt with the stench more often than he had, he guessed from her shuttered, tight expression. Groaning, the two managed to slide the heavy iron box away enough to squeeze behind it through the jagged hole in the fence. Getting closer to the dumpster, he had to hold his breath. She helped pull him through, his coat snagging and ripping a bit, but otherwise they made it unscathed.

"What's _in_ that thing?" he panted, rolling his aching shoulder. Obviously, he needed to start exercising a bit more during this occupation...

"Bodies," she replied flatly. "John, welcome to the Gotham City Morgue."

He fell silent, turning back to glance at the dumpster. It seemed even worse to him, now that he knew there were _people_ in it. The thought was almost as repulsive as the horrifying stench. Nobody deserved to be dumped out like garbage.

"I know," she muttered. "But it was either the dumpsters or the river. The ground's too frozen and the fuel for the incinerator can't be spared for the dead."

He turned to face her, and he knew his face wouldn't even have to ask for an explanation. She looked like she needed to give one, to _breathe_, and he understood—he'd felt the same way after he'd discovered Batman could very well be dead. Her eyes were jaded, anguished in some way that made her look like her soul was stained. His eyes didn't soften, but some of the lines around his nose smoothed out with rare empathy.

"I'd come here, during the first few days of Bane's rule. I knew that medical supplies would be needed—and badly. You saw Mrs. Kale—her leg was broken when she first came to me. Drugs could be a bartering tool. And hell—if I had to go, I'd at least go with painkillers popped along the way. I'm a realist that way," she smiled self-deprecatingly. He sighed tiredly.

"Well, when I came here... some of the homeless were... It was _bad._" Her voice had sunk into a lost, shell-shocked whisper. "And I knew, for my sanity's sake, for whatever shred of humanity I still possessed... the bodies needed to be kept safe somewhere. The river was too dangerous; I could fall in easily, die myself. The fuel for the incinerator would be needed when winter _really_ hits Gotham—it could very well be the difference between life and death for a lot of people. So I figured I'd lock them away in the dumpster, where they couldn't get to them. I kept... I kept all their id cards somewhere in a Ziploc baggie, just... _in case_, you know? Nikolai... Nikolai helped me carry them. He told me that the life must be left for the living, and the dead to the dead. Some Russian saying. Cold comfort, though."

She wrapped her arms around her, more for reassurance for the harsh decision than for warmth. She refused to meet his gaze, looking down at her battered shoes instead. And he knew what was running through her head, what would be running through his if he'd had to make the call.

"Hey. Alyth. _Alyth._"

"What?" she snapped, looking like she regretted the brusque tone.

He tipped her face up, forcing her to look at him. She liked his eyes, those dark eyes you could fall into, like a safety net. She still liked it when he said her name, in that voice of rumbling thunder it sometimes held. For all his boyish looks and charm, she was always very well aware that he was a _man_. A good man, an angry man, a man after her own heart if she'd ever let herself admit she had one... but a _man_ nonetheless.

"We're going to make Bane pay for everything he's done," he vowed. "For every misery he's forced on this city, into the weak. For every death."

"Yeah," she smiled weakly. He frowned, having none of that. "Alyth Gowan?"

She tensed, readying herself for the retribution she felt she deserved.

"You're a good woman."

And he leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. She sagged in relief she couldn't put into words. It felt like an absolution should, that kiss. Like it made her fucking _clean_ again, helped wipe off the filth clinging to her. She'd made some hard decisions these dark and awful days, walked lines she'd hoped she'd never have to. He didn't make it _okay—_he couldn't—but he made it _bearable_. A helluva lot less lonely.

"Mistletoe?" a cracked voice whispered.

John stepped back, the line of his body tense with suppressed movement, staying close, and Alyth reached for her switchblade. She didn't relax even as the familiar whiplash-thin face of her junkie supplier became visible. She'd learned to never trust junkies, even if they did have an agreement.

"Santa," she replied evenly.

"What, ah, what are you doing here with a, um, _friend_?" he nervously eyed the man.

"Santa, this is Rudolph. You could say that we've become... partners, I suppose. I'm looking for the Finley brothers right now though."

Santa visibly flinched at the mention of the brothers, something John filed away. The man, an obvious addict, was afraid of the men. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing at the moment. Finley sounded familiar, warning bells going off in the back of his mind.

"They, ah, they're _out_ at the moment-"

"You're lying," John noted, almost clinically, already halfway bored with the wretch of a human.

Santa's thin face paled, the man starting to twitch in nervousness.

"Cool it now, would ya? You're about to give poor Santa here a heart attack, and that would make for a terrible Christmas, wouldn't it, brotha?"

"A terrible Christmas, indeed."

Two men stepped forward from the building, thick Irish brogue lilting their voices almost musically. John flinched, recognizing the two as small-time arms dealers he and Ross had busted a couple years back. He hoped they didn't recognize him, but the way their faces lit up told him differently.

"Hey, Mistletoe, wha' the _fuck_ is this shyte now? Bringing along a _fucking_ cop?" the older brother spat.

_Conner_, he remembered. _Conner and Murphy Finley. Demons with guns, trained by their assassin father. Straight from Ireland, some of the last remnants of the Irish mob. Never killed women or children. Bizarre code of conduct for criminals._

"Conner," she smiled, the lines around her eyes growing tight with warning. "This is Rudolph. If you touch him, so help me God I will make you regret it."

John slid his eyes to her, noting the stiff mask her face had become, the sudden looseness of her stance. He wondered if she was trained in any kind of martial arts.

"And why should we trust _you_, Mistletoe?" Murphy growled.

"Because sweet little Rosie McMannus always told me that '_if ivver I was in trouble, I'd do smart and come straight to her Uncles Conner and Murphy, and they'd save me, they would_'," she sneered politely in a fair imitation of the brothers' rolling tongue.

The Finley brothers watched her with a sort of shocked suspicion, obviously trying to puzzle out where the woman could have met their relative. After a few minutes of hushed, frantic whispers, their eyes lit up at nearly the same time.

"You must be Miss Gowan!" Conner chuckled, a little incredulously. "I can see why li'l' Rosie was so over the moon about you."

"Makes me wish I'd let Rosie try to play matchmaker with me as she'd wanted," Murphy laughed, a little suggestively. The exaggerated movement of his eyebrows killed any honest leer he might've tried giving, making the statement rather comical instead. No one was quite sure if it was intentional or not.

"We're going to move against Bane, as soon as we can get it properly planned and with enough manpower. I don't give a rat's ass whether you're in or out, but I need your armory. I'd prefer for you to be with us, of course—better the devil you know, and all that," she drily stated. "But I'm just asking you to honor your cousin's promise. It's a little unfair, I know, but desperate times..." she trailed of, waving her hand vaguely.

The two Irish brothers stared at her for a long moment, measuring her and John up with an eerily calculating gaze coming from their laughing, mirthful eyes. He kept his eyes blank, but was already figuring out exits and which way to throw Alyth if things got out of hand. The Finleys exchanged looks that communicated in only the way that siblings—especially _twins_, even if they were fraternal—could speak with their eyes. They seemed to come to a mutual decision.

"Did ya ever ivver wonder _why_ we only did business with ya?" Conner asked suddenly.

She shrugged, running a hand through her hair wearily, eyes warily suspicious.

"I didn't know that you guys were feeding Santa the food in exchange for the meds Nikolai and I cleaned out when we first hit this place. I had some suspicions, mind you, after I poked around for a bit, but nothing concrete," she sighed. "And I certainly didn't know that I was your _only_, ah... business associate, shall we say. Pretty risky to use a _junkie_ as your frontman for getting prescription drugs."

"Oh, Santa... he's na' a bad sort, really. You might say we knew 'im _back in the day_, before da demon of drugs sunk ha claws in. As for your angle, well...We like ta know who we're feedin'," Conner smiled bluntly. "And under Bane, the sonuvabitch, _especially_ sharp eyes were kep' on ya building. We nivver knew names—but wha' we _saw_ was enough fa' us. So we decided ta... protect our _investments_, as it were."

"We'd heard rumours of a so-called _ruler of the Narrows_," Murphy spoke casually. "Well, originally, it started off as some daft, stupid bonnie girl takin' in strays—including tha' _rich_. Of course, this rumour _obviously_ couldn'a be tha' _right_ one—who would be _suicidal_ enough ta do _that_? So we might've... helped spread the right rumour about. All in tha' name o' _truth_, o' course."

Realization flashed through her eyes like heat lightning.

"You were the ones who started that," she breathed. "I always wondered who..."

"Bane's huntin' down any goodness a' t'all in Gotham, Miss Gowan. If you're like us, well... he'll leave ya be. It's a sad day when bein' regarded as a _criminal_ might save your neck. And you've always been kind ta our Rosie-girl, and God knows she needed some kindness in 'er life. Believe it o' not, we don't _like_ this city as it is—it's too bloody _easy_! Where's the _challenge_?" Conner snorted.

"What my _stupid_ brotha is tryin' to say-" "Hey!" "-is that we're in this with you, Miss Gowan. _Copper_," he sneered. "There's a lotta innocent people tha' are suffering wrongly in alla this," Murphy quietly stated, his eyes smoldering with tightly-wound fury. "We're in this with you, just let us know wha' you'll be needin'."

Eyes wide with unrestrained shock, she turned to John, a bit flabbergasted. He smirked, nodding at her, realizing that she might be getting a bit in over her head. He'd been letting her handle it; so far, she'd done a pretty good job. Again, he wondered what exactly she had _done_ in her life before all this.

"Firepower, any and all of it. We're going to use urban guerrilla tactics on Bane and his men. Well, to put it bluntly, we're going to use modified Joker strategies."

"I... see..." Conner muttered, taken-aback. "You know... tha' just _might_ be crazy enough ta work. Right, me an' Murph'll go take stock o' what we got, talk to some otha' fellas who can be trusted to be interested. Stay alive and outta trouble until we get back to ya."

As the two brothers slunk away, sharing looks, Alyth groaned into her hands.

"I really, _really_ hope this is not a mistake." Her face brightened for a moment, lit by hope. "But... did you _see_ them, John? I think... maybe we can trust them."

"Maybe," he shrugged noncommittally, believing it when he saw it. But her hope was infectious, and he found his lips quirking up a bit. "And yeah, I saw them," he grumbled.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" she grinned teasingly.

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head at her antics. He knew that he had to bring up a topic that had been nagging him in the back of his mind for awhile. He didn't particularly _want_ to spoil the moment, but what had to be done had to be done.

"I've been gone for two, almost three days now. I'd better contact Gordon."

She eyed him thoughtfully, wheels racing in her head. It would be dangerous—if Bane caught them harboring the god damned _Police Commissioner_ then it would be their death warrant. But Gordon might ignite their spirits, be the spark to their kindling resentment. He could be good for the people in her care. And if Bane caught them period... it would probably be a death warrant, with or without the Commissioner. Better to have them die with hope.

"Bring him here," she said firmly. "I know it's a risk, but... he'd give my people _hope_, John. And that's worth almost _any_ risk. The rumour the Finley brothers put out won't protect us forever."

He caught her gaze, the intensity of it crackling with purpose. He wondered what she saw in his gaze, and thought maybe he would ask her that one day, if they made it out alive. He knew that she was serious—and there was _food_ in her building, and human companionship. Both of those had become scarce, almost invaluable, qualities during the current miserable times.

"Okay," he shrugged. "It might be a day or two before I can get him here."

"I could go with you," she offered, attempting to appear nonchalant. "I've walked pretty far into the city, scavenging. Some days, Santa just didn't come through. So I know a lot of the patrol routes, especially around the Narrows. And... I'd like to know if something happens, rather than sitting around waiting for you two to return."

She'd looked away from him directly, watching him from the corner of her eyes. She was carefully casual in her posture; not disinterested, but trying to appear distinctly less anxious than she actually felt.

_She's worried about me, _he thought with a touch of disbelieving wonder. _A girl who's maybe 5'2"-at most—and keeping enough people to earn her the death sentence nearly sixty times over from the courts is worried about a disillusioned, half-starved cop she barely knows. What a glutton for punishment she must be._

Even as he thought the harsh statement, a feeling of warmth spread over him. Finally, someone would really, truly care whether he lived or he died. He hadn't felt that since his partner was trapped in the sewers... and even then, it had been sketchy at times. He thought that maybe nobody else in Gotham would give a rat's ass about him. Gordon would, but only as an asset—not as _John Blake_. Alyth... well, apparently she _would_. The feeling was rare enough that it forced him to acknowledge he felt the same way about her, even if the fact had chosen to reveal itself only in that moment.

"No doubt if you don't, you'll get yourself killed," he sighed, a touch wryly. She pretended to look affronted, but couldn't fully repress her smile. "C'mon then, I don't want the Commish to think I'm dead yet."

He reached for her hand, and she took it without a sound. Her eyes weren't looking at him, and he felt relieved; let him have time to _think_. It felt right, now, having her hand in his. He liked it, liked her where he could see her, could protect her. (Though to be fair, she didn't seem the damsel in distress type, and would probably be more likely to try and do something as stupid as attempt rescuing _him_.) And as he understood that, he also was beginning to see why Bruce Wayne always wore his masks.


	4. Chapter 3

Aaaaaand here it is, the 3 full chapter of what is quickly becoming my favorite story to write. Phantom of the Opera fans, if you're reading this or have read my POTO fics, I AM finishing up chapters in those stories as well, I'm just a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my stories. SPOILERS FOR _BRICK_: PLEASE SEE THE MOVIE! It is utterly amazing, especially if you love noir movies as much as I do. If you like Batman-which, assuming you're reading _fanfiction_ for the genre, you _do_-then you should love _Brick_ as much as I do. Please review and enjoy!

* * *

She wondered if it'd felt so strange for him to put his trust in her as she led him through the streets, if it was as strange as it felt to be led. It wasn't as if she didn't trust him—she trusted him probably more than she trusted herself, if she were honest—at least he was _trained _to serve and protect_._ More than she trusted anyone else she knew, at the very least. It just felt a little uneasy to be a follower again. She shook off the feeling with irritation at her own irrationality.

She felt her heart pounding, not with exertion or fear, but with a sort of surreal giddiness. The Commissioner Gordon had been considered almost a legend among everyone she'd known in the Narrows. Half the people in her care didn't truly believe what Bane had said the beloved Commissioner wrote, on that hellish day when he'd released the Blackgate prisoners. Denied a chance for parole or not, almost all of them had been convicted beyond any reasonable doubt of their guilt. Her heart stopped as the self-disfigured face of Victor Zsaz slammed into her mind's eye; she'd had the terrible misfortune of seeing him and one of his victims. She'd been lucky enough to miss the actual torture and killing, but what he'd done to the body—and to _himself—_had been scarring enough. She'd had to watch, trapped in some hidden dark corner while trying to will herself out of existence. It was a decidedly low moment of her life in Bane's Gotham. She remembered that Gotham had been filled with the screams of their victims as they once again gleefully mastered their playground. The sound of anguish and terror were almost as bad as Fear Day, a little over a decade ago now. _Had it really been so long? _She hadn't known time had slipped by so fast.

John's hand, so much larger than her own, was warm and stabilizing, like a groundwire for the thunderstorm of her thoughts. Each notion was as quick and intense as lightning, flashing from worry and concern about her poor sheep to the thrill of _finally _taking action against the monster who'd physically and emotionally leveled her _home_. After a few heartbeats, the people depending on her took precedence, as she figured they would. She'd have to impress upon them the necessity for haste—Sarah Markowitz was nearly due, and she wanted to be there for that. While she hadn't grown close to the woman—they were just too dissimilar—it didn't lessen her responsibility for Sarah and her unborn son, Samuel. The woman had been through enough lately as it was.

"We're almost there," he turned to her, eyes slanting but expression otherwise unchanged.

She smiled slightly, nodding, but didn't reply. There didn't really seem to be anything to say.

"So... I have a question for you," he hummed softly, muttering out snatches of thought and memory, tracking the patrols so they'd time it right. He gambled that they hadn't changed in the last few days he'd been gone.

"What is it?" she murmured, sharp eyes darting around, lips tight as she too tried to go through the steps she'd forced herself to memorize. _Three men every day except for Thursday, armed, travel like a military formation. The blonde one, the usual leader, won't let them rape but encourages them to murder and violence. Can't be bribed, good on his feet with a mean swing, but a glass jaw. Biggest man is really a coward, the one in grey camos is a true believer—a martyr. Gay. Wants to die for Bane to prove his love. The blue-eyed one is way higher up, but every Thursday at 3:49 goes out on patrol with the three man squad. Him... you don't mess with unless there's no other choice._ She bit her lip, hoping that the quiet man—Barjan? Barsad? Something like that—wasn't there today, that it wasn't a Thursday. He frightened her, with that calm, almost dreamy look in his eyes. He reminded her of something or someone, something she used to fear lived not under her bed, but existed somewhere in her own mind. That vacant, yawning emptiness inside of him terrified her, and she was ashamed of that fear. She supposed that would always frighten her—not hells or demons, but people who acted like their emissaries... what drove decent human beings to debase themselves into animals. She worried about this more than most; not just because living in the Narrows as a child had provided her with a unique viewpoint on human suffering, but also because that psychopath might lurk in her own soul. Alyth Gowan had always made it a point to be well-acquainted with her own demons.

_And behold, the red horseman of War_, she thought wearily, bitterness tainting her gaze. People were _dying—_and more people would die yet. Hell, they might all die if that fucking _nuclear bomb_ went off. She thought of pretty little Sarah Markowitz, heavy and awkward with her son, who still tried to smile and pray for the dead. She kept telling Alyth that in the end, life would find a way. Sarah had her only her son left; a drunk driver had killed her parents and little brother a year or so prior, her husband missing, trapped with the rest of his squad in the sewers. _"I believe God is merciful to those who wait. My people have endured far worse than Banes, Miss Gowan. We are a people born to endure suffering."_ The thought of her bravery gave Alyth strength to try and focus her rage. She didn't have the luxury of grieving or regrets. She had thrown her lot without hesitation in with John and Gordon, perhaps even before she'd met them. Now was the time to see it through.

"So, uh... what did you do, before all this? Before Bane?" he asked, eyes lit with curiosity like distant stars. The way his head was cocked at her, the intensity of his interest, made her acutely and painfully aware of the blush dusting over her cheeks. Thankfully most of it could be blamed on the biting cold, but from the smirk playing around the corners of his mouth she thought he'd caught it. _Dammit_. She fought the lopsided smile, and almost—but not quite—succeeded.

"You mean, like what was my _job_?" she chuckled. "Because I did a _lot _of things, you know. Busy modern woman and all." He rolled his eyes.

"Obviously."

She sighed, a touch melodramatically to see if she could make him smile. There, hovering in the crinkles near his eyes—as close as a smile as she'd get out in the open. "Well, if you must know... I was a civil servant," she replied crisply, voice switching to prim and proper. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand, but didn't manage to hide the grin completely. She felt more triumphant about that than she probably should've.

"As what, oh fair Miss Gowan?"

"Weeeell," she drawled, enjoying the game. "I was a librarian. Children's librarian, to be precise."

John raised his eyebrows, surprised. So 'little Rosie MacMannus' was really a _little_ Rosie MacMannus. And it would explain the circumstances of their first meeting...

"You look shocked!" she hissed delightedly, nose scrunching up in mock horror. "Did you really believe me so illiterate as to have completely dismissed such an absurd idea?"

"Well, I didn't wanna mention it..." he trailed off, but his eyes were dancing and his shoulders had relaxed a little. When she was sure he couldn't see it, she let her gaze soften and roll over him protectively. She liked it when he smiled, when he was happier. He seemed like he'd had enough hurt to last a lifetime—and she knew a thing or two about that.

"Cheeky," she laughed quietly.

"I think that's the first time I've been called that," he muttered, hunching his shoulders over and jamming his hands in his pockets. "I've been called a _lot_ of things, but _cheeky_ is a first, Alyth."

She repressed a shiver at the way his voice slid over her name with iron will alone. She was getting in deep with him; she had an inkling where this was going if they didn't throw on some kind of brakes. Their own natures would prevent anything rushed or hasty; however, once their intensity caught fire, it would burn everything else like so much chaff. It would consume them or ignite their world—or both, knowing her luck. _Yeah, and nearly all of it's bad,_ she snorted mentally. Both of them were damaged, inside; the other couldn't fix it or erase the past. She refused to let herself consider the possibilities of their mutual gravitation if they weren't looking for redemption in the burning. _That_ sort of hope she most _definitely_ couldn't indulge in. Perhaps, if they survived... yeah, then maybe.

"Nah, I just... I'd had you pegged for something different. You know a lot about what goes down around here. A lot more than I expected a kids' librarian to know, I guess."

Her eyes dimmed, like drapes gently falling down the proverbial windows to her soul. When she spoke, her voice was sad and a touch bitter.

"Most people, most abusers—they always warn the kids about the teachers, the cops. A lot of the time, they just kind of forget about us librarians. They think we read the kids stories, help them with their homework, and that's that. Kids are more willing to talk to us than the teachers they've been raised to fear... at least, in my experience. I've heard a lot from the kids of the Narrows—I've worked there almost a year now, and I tend to remember what I hear. I try to help them as much as I can, when I can. Sometimes there's—there's nothing I can do. Sometimes there is. And I read. A lot. As I'm sure you can imagine."

"A librarian? Reading?" he joked, pretending to be wryly shocked. "I would have never guessed."

"Apparently so!" she snickered. "I see that I've underwhelmed you," she griped good-naturedly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Her breathing hitched, but it evened out, calmed. The way his eyes pierced the shadows made her wonder what he was seeing in them. She wasn't sure if she _wanted_ to know just yet.

"Third building to the left, the brownstone. Apartment 48F."

She nodded tersely, body coiling as they waited for some loitering drifters to move. She hated the paranoia that thrived in Gotham's new reality, that bred there. Nobody should be so distrustful of their fellow man.

"Come on," he muttered, yanking her closer to him as they darted for the broken door. Sprinting up the stairs, they panted a few flights up.

"We should probably wait the day out here, head out at night," he grimaced. She wheezed, rubbing her back, nodding with the little energy she could spare.

"I suppose... the... elevator's out?"

"Maybe I just wanted you to get... a little... exercise."

She let out a string of profanity, fixing him with a black glare. He applauded her well-rounded tirade with a sardonic twitch of his eyebrows.

"Ugh... Running across mostly-level surfaces? No problem. Running _up_ goddamn multiple flights of stairs? Houston, we have an issue," she mouthed darkly to herself.

"Can't keep up?" he taunted.

"Just watch my back," she yelped, darting forward with a challenge on her face. He groaned as he watched her fly up the stairs, wondering where the fuck she kept her spare reserves of energy. He could use a little of that. Following at a much more sedate pace, he scowled at the sight of her smug look as Alyth waited in front of his apartment. He also noticed her heaving chest far more than he wanted to, attempting to be a good guy and look away. He couldn't help his eyes sliding over to glance every now and then as he turned the key. It'd been a long time since he'd been with a woman... and none of them had mattered since _Em_. Not since high school, when his last foster parents before he'd aged out, the Fryes, had taken him in and changed his name to try and make him fit into their family.

Not since he'd found Emily Kostich dead near the end of his junior year.

It hadn't worked—the family, the name change, or the relationship. He'd spent a long time since then trying to deal with the aftermath. John had had to learn the hard way between understanding and acceptance of his difficult nature. In the end, he supposed it hadn't mattered one way or another. Em had still died, taken the hit when she didn't deserve it, and taken something infinitely beautiful and fragile with her. Even in the sleepy suburb outside of Gotham proper, the city had poisoned it with drugs and gangs. He'd been determined to change it for the Emily Kostich's he _could_ save in time.

The key turned, and he motioned for her to enter. As she did so, she reached out for him, stopping halfway through. He didn't want to know what she saw in his eyes right then. Gordon stepped back from behind the door, lowering his gun as he saw who it was.

"I'd almost started thinking the worse, Detective. Who's this?" Gordon smiled tightly.

"Alyth Gowan, sir," she introduced, extending her hand. He looked at it as if it would bite him, but eventually shook it anyways. "I've been helping people down in the Narrows."

"Yeah, Rooney told me that the Finley brothers were spreading a rumour around. Figured it was a smokescreen for their own movements," he muttered distractedly.

She pursed her lips but didn't affirm the statement. The fewer people who knew exactly what their intentions were—which admittedly were still hazy to her—the better.

"Not all of it is bullshit," she smiled easily, mask hiding her wariness.

"They got about sixty people there, Commish. Wanted to offer you safe haven. Alyth here's organizing a rebellion against Bane, and has got some _interesting_ connections," John spoke quietly, enunciating significantly. Gordon caught the hint, eyebrows shooting up behind his glasses.

"Well I suppose you must be trustworthy if Blake says so," Gordon smiled blearily, the weight of Gotham resting on his shoulders aging him prematurely. As he looked at her and his detective, at the easy camaraderie and unspoken language between the two, the unconscious pull they held for each other, he whistled mentally. He'd almost, sometimes, had that with Barbara, before duty and this hellish city had destroyed their marriage. This Alyth, whoever she _really_ was, on the inside—she was _dangerous_ for Blake. When the last girl he'd loved had died, he'd torn down an entire drug ring and nearly caused a gang war. Kids had _died_;maybe not from him directly but surely as a result of his unorthodox investigation. From what he'd gathered in his digging, Emily Kostich hadn't even _loved_ Blake—who'd been forced to take a different name for almost two years—and he'd doggedly set out to find the truth, consequences be damned. Gordon thought that if Blake and Alyth realized the banked firestorm that lay between them, if they fell in love (_or their approximation of it_), if one of them died...

He shuddered.

Blake could raze Gotham to the ground to get to Bane.

Gordon kept his eyes open, gears turning while making battle plans with the two. He didn't like the idea of using the god damned _Joker's_ tactics, but it made a sick sort of sense. Bane probably wouldn't see it coming either, which was a very good point. The fact that Alyth, with something coldly burning and ancient etched into her eyes, had suggested it made Gordon wonder if she wouldn't be the more dangerous one if Blake was killed. Women had the potential to be much crueler than men, after all; women who had lost everything were worse still. He made a mental note to keep an eye on her.

Hours passed in plotting. She'd brought food—_food_-and some of his misgivings melted a little. Gordon had eaten slowly, enjoying the desperately needed nourishment. He felt a little guilty for being resentful of Blake having the opportunity to eat while he was away. He knows the rookie gave him the rest of the food he'd had that'd still been edible. Blake had gone without food probably two days when he'd left to scavenge. Gordon felt a pang of remorse. The kid was alright though—so he kept eating. He'd become drowsy, sleepy; not from any hidden drugs but from the energy his semi-starved body was expending to digest the rough meal. He quietly excused himself, figuring they could use some time alone to... do whatever people like them did.

There was weary stillness for long minutes after Gordon laid down in the guest bedroom. Alyth had moved over to join John on his couch, his arm sliding over her shoulders as if it was the most natural movement in the world. It could have been—neither one actually realized it had happened, not until John's head was resting on hers, breathing evening out with exhaustion, Alyth using his shoulder as a pillow. The two were fighting for consciousness, staving off the darkness of cooing sleep.

_She's soft when she's tired,_ he thinks, his mind narrowing down into last-ditch attempts to stay sharpish and awake. _Eases up some of the weight of her world. _He breathed in deeply, incredibly comfortable in those minutes. He knew he wouldn't be when he woke up—back'd be popping, crick in the neck, the works—but for now, it was worth it. The smell of her, jasmine and mint, filled his senses with memories of summers spent with his grandparents, back when he was barely out of diapers. His mother (who wasn't even a ghost to him anymore, just a faint impression of warmth and laundry detergent) and his father (_dad_) had loved those summers. He thinks maybe his grandparents died, since they stopped going. He doesn't know—but what he _does_ know is that he likes her smell; it's summer sunshine in the iciest circle of hell. His eyes drift closed, content. He believes his dreams will be gentler tonight. He hopes they will be.

She listens as his breathing deepens, steadies. He's solid and strong and _warm_ against her. He smells like sweat, gunpowder, and Old Spice—undeniably masculine and attractive. Her lips tingle as if burnt at the searing memory of their kiss, a breathy sigh escaping her good intentions. His head is resting on hers, the slight weight comforting; his arm is protection against the cold, cruel world. The scent of his cheap aftershave is enough to make her dizzy. She berates herself, weakly, for being such a romantic, giddy little schoolgirl. She's older than that, _better_ than that. Her overworked nerves settle down, sleep tiptoeing over her mind, blanketing everything in blessed darkness. Before she slips away, she thinks that this is the safest she's ever felt, next to somebody who's got her back, who can count on her watching his. She hopes his dreams are sweet, because if anybody deserves it, it's the man she's resting on.

Neither one of them remember their dreams in the morning, or even if they dreamed at all.


	5. Chapter 4

Please, for the love of Rassilon, review. While I'll write this story regardless, it's still incredibly disheartening to receive almost no response on how you guys liked the chapters or where the story's going. Please? I'm not too proud to beg.

Also: there are little Easter eggs in the form of references to other fandoms in every chapter except the prologue. Kudos to anybody who can spot them! (Hint: some are more obvious than others.)

* * *

Commissioner Gordon didn't know if it was a compliment or not when all noise and movement ceased when he walked in the battered apartment building doors. The sea of faces froze, like a living photograph, a snapshot of one single instance in time. Alyth and Blake stood behind him, a little awkwardly. They shared a single glance and, as if by some unspoken communication, Alyth stepped forward. Smiling slightly at her 'sheep', she gave them a terse grimace.

"Are you hungry?" a Russian man came up to them, his eyes carefully blank.

Gordon noticed the tiny, absorbing look he gave to Alyth—he was making sure she was alright. _There might be some trouble there,_ he thought wearily. If she noticed, she made no sign of it. Still, he wondered... Mentally shrugging, he figured they had bigger and better reasons to worry—mostly the fact that they were planning on a rebellion against _Bane_, the unofficial ruler of Gotham and the terrorist with a _fucking nuke_. There was no mercy to be had if he caught them, and there was no way to keep something like this a _secret_ for terribly long.

But still... he wasn't going to go down without a _fight_.

"Get some food, some stew or something," Alyth ordered the man quietly. "And some coffee."

He nodded patiently, going off to fetch the precious nourishment. Satisfied that her erstwhile guests would be properly taken care of, she started with her rounds, making her way and talking with everyone. Gordon was strangely touched by the sight; human kindness was a rare, unheard of thing now... and it'd been scarce before Bane, if he were to be honest with himself. Blake's dark eyes watched her, perhaps unconsciously, as she smiled tiredly and softly reassured the people. Gordon wondered what he thought of when he looked at her, then realized it was none of his business.

Eventually—but purposely—making her way back to the men as they slowly ate, she pulled up a scuffed chair, plopping down into it as if grateful to cease movement. Her tireless facade was finally starting to slip; it made her more vulnerable. More human, really. _She can't be much older than Barbara._ The unexpected epiphany made his heart ache for his family, so far beyond his reach. He stared into his soup blankly, lost in half-forgotten memories of the life he'd had.

"Do you need anything else?" she murmured to John, handing him another hot mug of awful coffee.

He gave small shake of his head, a ghost of a smile playing around his exhausted face. He raised his mug to hers in a silent toast. She grinned, mimicking the movement. They smiled with their eyes over the steam rising from the dark liquid. Her eyes, when they weren't scanning his face to reassure herself that he was, in fact, fine, were constantly moving over the people chatting amongst themselves in the modest room. It was a look he'd seen on a lot of captains back at the precinct. Hell, he'd caught it on his own face a time or two. The burden of leadership was a singularly identifiable one.

"The pregnant woman, she will be delivering very very soon, I think," the Russian man sighed, collapsing next to Alyth after he'd wheeled a rickety office chair over to their card table. Her lips tightened into a thin line, nodding tersely.

"No words on any doctor?"

"In the Narrows? No, solnyshka, not a doctor of anything useful. Therapists, or shrinks, maybe," he laughed bitterly. John scowled slightly at the man for his cynicism, but acknowledged he was probably right.

"Any port in a storm, Nikolai," Alyth chastised gently. "I'm certified in CPR since I moonlighted as a lifeguard last summer, but _midwifing _is a little out of my league."

"It is not so hard as you might think," Nikolai grunted. "Unless it is a bad birth. It has been a hard winter, and she has been in pain for hours. I do not know if it will be a good birth. The child is all she has left, malen'kii volk. I fear if it worsens. Childbirth is dangerous for child _and_ mother, even in ideal circumstances."

"Being born is dangerous, living is dangerous... is there no time we are free of it?" Gordon muttered, having overheard the discussion at hand.

"Oh, I don't know about that, Commish," John said quietly, an odd smile on his face. "The way I see things, we're a lot better off than a lotta people in Gotham."

She watched him, a sort of pride filling her. Hope started fluttering in her heart like a wounded bird; she wasn't sure quite what it was hope _for_ but it was _something_. She _believed_ him when he spoke with that conviction, unyielding as the mountains. Belief—in him, in herself, in the _future—_awakened like winter sunlight inside her soul. A vague quote battered around her mind. What was it? Something she'd heard a long time ago danced at the edge of her memory.

_But I've seen a lot of this Universe. I've seen fake gods and bad gods and demigods and would-be gods. And out of all that, out of that whole pantheon, if I believe in one thing—just one thing—I believe in her. _She gave a tiny mental smirk. _Or him, rather. What strange days we've lived to see..._

"Yeah besides," she smiled toothily, "no offense, but Bane only trapped the _cops_. I can name at _least_ two other federal agencies who might have a bone to pick with him about all of this." Alyth waved her had vaguely around them. No need to put into words what they were already dealing with.

"You just might be right, Miss Gowan," Gordon nodded.

"I _know_ I am," she muttered, not unkindly.

Nikolai's sharp eyes caught sight of the fatigue that the three wore. Pushing himself up, he sighed, prepared to _make_ Alyth sleep if he had to.

"Even the malen'kii volk needs sleep tonight, I think. Go, solnyshka. If anything happens, I will get you," he rumbled gently, eyes softening as he ordered her. She nodded gratefully, hunching over her dismal drink. "There's still a room left-"

"Eastern side, number 23," she cut in automatically. "I'll see them there, Nikolai. And... thanks."

He merely nodded, already striding away to check the doors. She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing at how greasy it was. Ugh. She was getting a bit desperate for a shower; her last had been... awhile ago. Subtly, as she stretched, she gave herself a quick sniff. She didn't _quite_ stink, just yet, but it wouldn't be much longer before she did. Fuckin' _fantastic_.

"Before you ask, we're taking the elevator," she informed John crisply. He didn't say anything, but his eyes danced mirthfully. The Narrows didn't get much power these days; however, after Fear Night they'd moved this part of the city to its own grid. Arkham Asylum being in the Narrows had been a large contributing factor towards that decision. Everyone in the building had never been more grateful for that fact. The elevator groaned ominously and shuddered more than it should've, but eventually the three made it to the second floor. Briskly walking to the door, she pulled out a ring of keys, slipping one off and tossing it to Gordon. He caught it, slightly startled.

"You don't really need to lock it, but you can if you want," she shrugged as way of explanation. "There's only one bed, I'm afraid. There's still toilet paper, just can't flush; some canned food too if you get hungry. I tried to squirrel away some stuff in each apartment, just—_in case_, y'know? If you need me, grab Nikolai or somebody else. They all know where I sleep."

"There's no couch and only one bed," Gordon pointed out with a frown, less because of any discomfort and more to silently ask who was taking the floor.

She paused, her eyes measuring John. He steadily met her gaze, something deeper and darker flashing through the brown. She nodded, as if he'd spoken, turning on her heel abruptly to face the oldest member of the haphazard trio.

"I have a couch in my room, Commissioner. Take the bed; you look like you need the sleep. John can double up with me."

Raising his eyebrows, he decided to hold his tongue. Whatever was taking its time to unfold between the two, he wanted as little to do with it as possible. And having a bed to himself seemed like the best news he'd had all day. Excusing himself for the night, he shut the door behind it. He laid on his aching back, staring at the ceiling for a few long moments after their footsteps had died away. Finally, he staggered up to the door, locking it. When he all but fell back onto the bed, he was asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.

* * *

"Thanks," John muttered. She nodded, fluffing up the lumpy pillows on the couch.

"You're welcome. I'm assuming you remember the way to the bed," she said softly, nodding towards the door. He stood there for a moment, baffled.

"But I'm taking the couch," he frowned. She snorted inelegantly.

"Like hell you are, John. My apartment, my rules. You need the rest more than I do."

"I'm not taking your bed from you again," John shook his head, shoulders taking a decidedly determined tenseness, anticipating an argument. He wasn't disappointed.

"Well we can't _both_ bloody well take the couch," she snapped stubbornly. "And I'm a helluva lot smaller than you." Her eyes softened minutely. "Look... let me do this, okay? I can't make much else right, but I can at least make sure you have a good night's sleep."

"You think I could_ sleep_ knowing you're cold and uncomfortable?" he asked skeptically. "Besides, what keeps me from just _putting_ you there when you're asleep?"

"I'm a light sleeper," she replied almost instantly, which made him think she'd been preparing for that particular line of attack. "Trust me, I'd wake up and bitch at you."

At any other time her husky, self-deprecating chuckle, tinged with amusement at herself, would have caused pleasanter sensations. Now it was just irritating to him.

"You can bitch at me all you want, I'm still taking the couch."

Rolling her eyes at the disagreement she was rapidly beginning to be annoyed and amused by, she laughed hoarsely. She regarded him for a long moment, the irresistible force meeting the immovable object, and decided that a compromise was in order, else they'd get _no_ sleep bickering this out. She shrugged placatingly.

"Or we could share the bed." At the priceless deer-in-the-headlights, wide-eyed look John had, she grinned mischievously. "I don't bite, you know."

"Shouldn't I be reassuring _you_ of that?" he muttered ironically.

She waved a hand dismissively.

"Twenty-first century and all, you know. So... do we have an agreement? Because I think we're _both_ about dead on our feet right about now," she noted shrewdly.

John was forced to agree with her. The sleep they'd gotten at his place hadn't been nearly enough, and unconsciousness sounded downright blissful. His legs and feet ached, his head was pounding; he could tell that even Alyth, who he figured normally pushed past her exhaustion by simply _ignoring_ it, desperately needed some deeper sleep. He nodded slowly, somewhat hesitant about sharing a bed with her. He wasn't entirely sure _why—_it wasn't as if they were in any physical condition to attempt anything... amorous. He wasn't even sure if she was _open_ the idea of going there with him... but he had his suspicions. The idea certainly wasn't repulsive to him. He stopped his mind from going too far down that path. _Slow, Blake. Don't scare her off._

He didn't know if she _could_ be scared off, but the chance of it disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. As she changed into clean pajamas in the privacy of her bathroom, he changed quickly as well. Shrugging on the familiar flannel pants and oversized shirt, he sat on the edge of the bed. A few moments later, she stepped out, almost—but not quite—shyly. The grey pants patterned with owls and the baggy charcoal sweater were hardly titillating, and yet... something in the atmosphere was charged. He was struck again that she was, in fact, _beautiful_. Beautiful, and strong, and fierce, and _angry_...

His blood began to stir.

"Do you want the left side or the right?" she asked quietly, staring at the carpeted floor. She took a deep breath, lifting her head up to steadily meet his burning look with her own vivid intensity. He cleared his throat.

"Right," he muttered. It was the side that faced the door; some blooming protective instinct made him want to be between her and whatever might come through there in the night.

"Okay," she whispered simply, breathlessly. She climbed underneath the blankets, shuddering a bit at the icy cold that stabbed through her. God, they were _freezing_. Her heart was pounding in her chest as he joined her a minute later. She was almost painfully aware that he was only an inch or so behind her; his back was to her, radiating heat. She stifled the urge to curl up around it to warm her bones. The hair on her arms—the closest thing to the long, lean line of his back—stood on end, nerve endings aware of his slightest movement. She measured her breaths to keep from gulping in air unattractively. _How the hell am I ever going to sleep like this?_ she lamented.

Next to her, John was also trying to ignore the intoxicating proximity. The gentle, sweet smell of her was almost more than he could bear. He could feel her little shivers, hear her carefully controlled breathing. He tried to forget what she'd looked like in her sleepwear. Her pants hadn't been tight but they hadn't been very loose, either. They'd hugged her curves with a sort of innocent sensuality—she obviously hadn't been _trying_ to rev him up. The fact remained that the dark grey of her pajamas set off the green of her eyes, the soft pale rose of her lips. His skin stood on end, the electricity of her presence filling him with a slow burn he'd never felt before. He wanted to hold her, he realized. Just some _contact_ could ease this growing ache...

_Or fan the flames,_ he reprimanded himself darkly. _But, Christ, how the fuck am I going to get any sleep with—with Alyth so close to me like this? This fucking unresolved sexual tension might kill me before Bane does._

Briefly, he considered turning over, pulling her to him and tilting her head up just _so_... Sighing, he let the thought go. There was a time and a place for something like that, and this was might be the place but it certainly wasn't the time. They both needed sleep, and some more emotional space—_or less,_ he reflected wryly—before they were ready to be intimate. He didn't want to ruin whatever was coiling and building between them.

"Sweet dreams, John," she sighed blearily, frustration lightly lacing her tone.

He smiled into the pillow that smelt like her, thinking her thoughts were probably running along similar tracks as his. It was comforting, in a way—if a bit unhelpful. The tension reluctantly drained away, sleep falling remarkably fast. He woke up a few hours later, his arm over her waist. He'd drawn her to him securely, his brain fuzzily soothed by her closeness. Her soft curves fit with a strange perfection to his body. He inhaled the scent of her hair, slipping back into sleep.

Later, when she woke up from a fight that broke out under her apartment—_the Ramirez's are at it again, need to talk to them in the morning—_she was remotely gleeful at the solid weight of John's arm pulling her gently to him. She turned impatiently, half-asleep, to face him, wrapping her own arm around him to bring him just as close to her. Satisfied, she fell back into full unconsciousness.

* * *

John was the first to wake up; or, at least, to wake up _fully_. Alyth's soft, warm breath blew on his shirt; her breasts were pressed against him, arms and legs entwined haphazardly, making him groan silently. He closed his eyes, counting to ten, before he started to gently disentangle himself. He watched her for a moment as she slept, curling up in his vacated heat. His eyes were very dark and warm, well-nigh inscrutable, as he gazed at Alyth. He turned to the kitchen, going through the familiar normalcy of making some coffee. Grimacing at the taste, he sat on the couch, letting the caffeine finish waking him.

A little while later, perhaps an hour or so, Alyth stumbled in. Groaning, she blindly reached for a container, haphazardly pouring herself a large amount of the by-then lukewarm drink. Gulping a large amount of coffee so she would be able to fully open her eyes, she absorbed the peace silently. She caught sight of his amused face, sniffing as she somewhat self-consciously smoothed down her ruffled hair.

"Mornin'," she grunted. "Time?"

He checked his cheap, shitty watch obediently.

"About seven."

She nodded to show she'd heard, curling up at the other end of the couch, clutching the cup to her like a security blanket. She still felt a little disoriented; she'd probably slept harder last night than she had... well, in years really. Insomnia had always been an off-and-on battle for her, which was why Bane's occupation hadn't affected her sleep schedule terribly much. She suddenly, viciously missed McDonald's breakfast, longingly remembering _good_ coffee and hot, delicious food. With a long-suffering sigh, she forced herself to consider their options for breakfast. With a grimace, she vowed that if she got through this alive she was _definitely_ keeping a well-stocked fridge from then on. _I'd just about maim somebody for some fresh fruit._

"Hungry?"

"I could eat," John replied evenly, reading a weeks-old newspaper that effectively masked his quirking lips. Making herself stand, get up, _move_, she wandered into the kitchen, popping open a few random cans of stuff that _might_ be... bearable together. Arranging it onto two plates, she handed him the other. He nodded his thanks, both of them eating in wordless agreement.

A knock interrupted them halfway through the admittedly wonky-tasting meal. Surprised, the two glanced at each other. After a heartbeat, John waved her back down, answering the door after checking through the peephole. Nikolai, who'd been in the midst of knocking as John swung open the door, seemed stunned to see him. His eyes darkened at seeing the young detective. _As if the boy __**belongs**__ here._ The Russian scowled, straightening to his full height.

"Solnyshka?" he called stiffly.

"What's up, Nikolai?" Alyth asked by way of greeting, tensing noticeably, obviously expecting bad news. Nikolai wasn't the kind of man to just come by for a fucking _chat_. John leaned casually against the door, curious. Nikolai was resentful of the expectation of being informed. _He_ hadn't kept this ragtag collection of the condemned together and alive—his malen'kii volk carried that weight of responsibility. As far as he was concerned, the detective brought almost nothing to the table.

He didn't like the new guy, Nikolai decided.

He tried to convince himself that it had nothing to do with the way Alyth watched him, really _looked_ at him. Tried to convince himself that it wasn't because he was a _cop_, that seeing Alyth and Blake together was like the two sides of—of—a fucking _yin-yang_. They spoke the same burning language, moved and thought the same way. He let his disapproval show with the tight lines around his mouth and eyes.

"Solnyshka, why is he here?" he'd muttered, Russian accent thickening with his displeasure.

She'd noticed, he knew—noticed it and promptly ignored it.

"Nikolai," she said evenly, "please, no offense—but why are _you_ here? What's happened?"

The hard warning in her eyes was clear, and he grit his teeth. He would die before betraying her or any of the other poor fools in the building to Bane, but damned if he didn't hate the idea of dealing more than he had to with the man he already hated.

Blake was watching him carefully with those dark eyes of his, so similar to his solnyshka's. He felt angry, like a bug under a microscope with those eyes on him. As if sensing that, the younger man slid his eyes back to her. She glanced to him, quickly, then back to a fuming, confused Nikolai.

"Is something wrong?" she'd calmly demanded.

"I think... the Jewish girl. The baby is coming, soon."

"Thanks, Nikolai."

And then she'd had the gall to turn on her heel and just _leave_. He stood there for a moment, helpless in his impotent jealousy and unwanted love for her, and Blake had shot him a grim, knowing look. Nikolai swallowed it, bitter and burning like acid all the way down. No... he had seen this story before. He closed his eyes, letting out all of his emotions in that breath; when he opened his eyes, he was Russian again, in control.

They were gone.

Slamming his fist into the wall, he cursed long and violently in Russian.


	6. Chapter 5

I would apologize for the impolitely long wait on this chapter; I'm still not entirely happy with it, as it feels like filler, but it's necessary to set up and introduce the next chapters. Oh, my schedule's changing next month so my updates might be even more sporadic next month, to give you a heads up. Yay me. I also might possibly have some cancer. That might also delay my updates. Kudos to anybody who spotted the crossover reference this chapter and who can figure out who the 'Brotherhood' is.

**Warning: the next chapters will have possible triggers, including (but not limited to) recreational drug use, drinking, suicidal thoughts, all forms of violence and domination (ala Bane) and possibly some good old fashioned sex scenes. **I'm not saying between who, either. As always, I promise that even the most brutal events will be posted tastefully-I am firmly against the "rape to fall in love" cliche that seems to be disturbingly common now. It's cheap, gimmicky, and I personally find it in poor taste. Explicit rape will _never_, under almost any circumstances unless dealing with the psychological and physical after effects (not romance), be in any of my stories. Just... no. I'm a better writer than that.

I'll be posting links for pictures of Nikolai on my profile later, as I finally found an actor who fits him. Still can't find somebody who fits Alyth-and that's probably a good thing. I'm rather fond of Ms. Gowan now.

_For the love of Eru, please review._ You don't know how much they mean to me. Thanks for all the faves and followers, but please... just drop me a line, okay?

You're welcome for the December gift hahahaha.

* * *

Supplies and numbers were running through her head, complex calculations with unstable variables and little in the way of solving them making her grit her teeth. It began to give her a headache, this worrying, but doggedly she pushed through. Beside her, John noticed the quick flashes in her eyes; they were utterly absorbed and beginning to glaze over. It wasn't healthy, this tension in her small shoulders, running like slim steel cords wrapped around her bones; he knew that they would ache, as his own did. Hesitating for a moment, he placed a warm, solid hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him for a moment, irritation sharpening her green, green gaze—then she realized what he was saying in the crackles of empathy in his eyes, appreciation and gratitude electrifying her own.

"Want me to go in?" he asked wryly, hunched over shoulders belying his reluctance.

The fact that he'd even ask, uncomfortable for him as it would be, melted her heart a little. Making sure to keep that fact firmly to herself—emotional privacy was a trait she and John shared—she smirked at him good-naturedly, her eyes playful now.

"Do you know anything about birthing babies?"

"Well, I know the baby's supposed to come out headfirst. I don't know why, or much more than that though."

"Then there's not much point," she chuckled, rolling her eyes. "And I doubt Mrs. Markowitz would appreciate it much. Look," her tone softened, "why don't you go get some food? I'm sure you must be hungry, we ate early yesterday."

The corners of his mouth lifted, making him look like a younger man in better days. While not actually being a smile, all the sentiment of one was behind it; it was an incredibly endearing feature, an expression uniquely _John_. She'd begun noticing them more often, and it made her wary—giddy, but wary.

He gave her a slight nod, striding off to get some breakfast; she gave him a lingering, appreciative glance from the corner of her eyes, gambling he wouldn't sense it. If he did, he didn't show it (to her immeasurable relief). Belatedly, she realized that Commissioner Gordon—who was sitting in the deep shadows outside the room—had been waiting there. She pushed the memory of John's lean, quietly confident figure out of her mind rather forcibly. _He looks awfully nice in those spiffy clothes of his though..._

"She's Hank Markowitz's wife, right?" he nodded towards the door, ignoring with practiced patience the sound of the pregnant woman's shrieking. Wincing, Alyth nodded brusquely. He nodded, as if he'd been expecting that answer. "When you get the chance, I'd like to talk to her."

"Fine," she grimaced, hand resting on the doorknob.

She glared at the closed door in front of her, not at all wanting to have to deal with what was on the other side. For a few heartbeats, she let herself mentally grumble, then sighed jadedly and pushed open the door.

"How is she?" Alyth demanded without preamble. She'd been a little surprised that the Commissioner was outside the room already; she hoped he knew more about delivering babies than she did, if it came to that. Greeting the elderly Mrs. Rossi, who was attending the Markowitz girl, Alyth's head began to pound terribly at the noise. The poor woman was moaning in pain as contractions rocked through her. Alyth grimaced in sympathy, wearily settling herself in for a long labor session.

"Pah! That Russian, he doesn't know anything about babies," the Italian woman sputtered with righteous indignation. "Not regular! These contractions, they're—they're—how do you say? False?"

"Ahh. Braxton-Hicks contractions," Alyth smiled slightly, a little relieved. "I know it's soon, but she isn't considered full-term yet though... right?"

Mrs. Rossi beamed at her, glad to have a chance to have a conversation with the woman who'd rescued her and her son—_without_ it involving food or basic survival. It made her feel like more than a useless old lady... and she needed that.

"Yes, yes. Poor little _bambina_, the falsies are hurting her. But there's nothing to be done—even the doctors, they would say, 'no, no, is not real' and make her walk a bit. Bah! What do doctors know? I have delivered more children than most of them, I'lla bet!"

The younger woman smiled patiently at the rant, letting Mrs. Rossi run out of steam. It was the best way to deal with the Italian woman once she got on a subject she was _particularly_ passionate about. Finally, Alyth gently interjected with a question that had been on her mind.

"Mrs. Rossi, do you think that Mrs. Markowitz is well enough to receive visitors? We have a... guest... here who might be able to bring her news of her husband."

"Oh?" Mrs. Rossi asked, eyebrow raised rather saucily. "Is ita that _bel ragazzo_ I've seen? You needa a _man_ in these days! If only Mr. Rossi were a-still around..." she sighed, lost in romance.

Alyth didn't need a translator to guess what _bel ragazzo_ meant—the expression said enough. Blushing lightly, she forced the image of the scorched-earth colored eyes out of her head and refocused on the task at hand... namely, getting Mrs. Rossi back on track.

"Mrs. Rossi," she put some order in her tone, "can Sarah have visitors?"

"YES! YES I CAN!" Sarah shouted, panting. "And I can _damn well_ speak for myself!"

Mouth twitching, she fought back a smile at the withering glare Sarah shot towards her and Mrs. Rossi's muttering in Italian. She stepped outside as a flurry of Yiddish and Italian erupted, devolving into multilingual shouting.

"Going well, I take it?" Commissioner Gordon asked, eyebrow raised.

"Sort of. False contractions," she shrugged. "When it calms down, though, I'd like it if you could visit with Sarah. Her husband's trapped down with the rest of his squad and I'm sure that any information would be gratefully received. John hasn't heard any details of him from Officer Ross. However, in the meantime, I'll go and find some breakfast for you."

She waved off Commissioner Gordon's thanks, heading towards the makeshift kitchens. Nikolai looked up as she came in, opened his mouth, then closed it as if he thought better of it. She was entirely too tired to deal with the drama, choosing to ignore it. If he had an issue with her, he'd let it out eventually; there was no point worrying about that on top of everything else going on. And she was itching to meet up with the Finley brothers at some point today... _assuming_ she could track them down.

"The girl... she is delivering?" he inquired roughly. She noticed immediately that his nicknames for her had been left off. Across the room, John's quirked eyebrow said that he caught it too. Alyth recited a short mantra in her head to keep her patience, remembering that she actually _liked_ Nikolai—and more than that, that she _needed_ him.

Obviously, this was going to be a delicate situation.

"No," she sighed, honestly, "false contractions. Boy's coming soon, but not today. Thankfully. We need more food and water soon." Alyth's sigh wasn't entirely for show; there was so much that needed to be _done_, on top of the struggle to survive Bane's carefully controlled anarchy. It was an exhausting duty that sometimes, like now, completely overwhelmed her. Add on top of the uncomfortable and unwanted feelings (on _both_ sides) that Nikolai harbored for her and it was a recipe for misery.

"I... malen'kii volk..." Nikolai trailed off, wanting to reassure her but not knowing the words to say. "Some of the men, we could go out, in your place. It is not Bane we need fear at the supply trucks; the mob will not be knowing me or Paolo Rossi. Paolo, he was known in Metropolis—not so much, in Gotham." His tone gentled as he took in her stress; her grip on the coffee mug was tight enough to shatter it. And he could not stop loving her now—not even if it broke his frozen Russian heart. She was the woman who had taken him in from off the streets, given him a home and a purpose. And she was the sort of person who deserved his help; little though he felt he had to offer her.

"Thank you, Nikolai," she replied quietly, relief flooding through her. He cleared his throat, nodding, and then muttered about making plans. He left (_fled_) very soon afterwards.

Waiting until it was safe, she groaned an inarticulate curse into the table, covering her head with her arms. She gave a warning glare at John, who looked like he was suppressing a knowing smirk.

"Not a word, Blake," she ordered balefully. "I've been up less than an hour and I can already say it's been a long day." Groaning, she stood up, stretching—the audible sounds of cartilage and joints creaking and popping wasn't reassuring to her. "And I daresay it's going to be longer still."

Caught up in her thoughts, she didn't notice John's heated, lingering glance as he silently drank in the way her sweater slid over lush curves. Quietly, unbidden, the memory of their kiss sent a gentle wave of heat through him, warming his bones. He took a long drag of truly bad coffee to occupy him, thinking of how warm and soft she'd felt as he'd woken up with her in his arms. Amused but wary at the path of his reflections, he tuned back into what she was saying.

"—change, check in on Markowitz, and then head out."

"I'll go with you," he nodded, eyes hardening. "It's not safe for you to go out alone. The mobs are getting worse."

"And it's safer for you, _detective_?" she cocked an eyebrow in sarcastic challenge. "I'm not planning on seeing just the Finley brothers—I've got a lotta feelers in the survival cells, and some of them have turned up leads. Brendan Conlin, a physics teacher, has been taking in kids and helping them. I heard they're going to Saint Swithin; I'm not so much worried about Conlin," a secretive, ghostly smile hovered on her lips, "as I am with making sure that they're all getting enough of what they need. Bane's men and the mobs usually don't mess with the clergy or orphanage volunteers, but..."

At the mention of Saint Swithin's, John shot Alyth a swift, sharp look. The name of the orphanage-turned-boys home both paradoxically reminded him of _home_ and _loneliness._ If Alyth caught the split-second of unexpected vulnerability on his face, she gave no sign of it. He was infinitely relieved.

"Pretty risky for a teacher," he chose to grunt instead.

Mischievous, unrepentantly merry laughter danced in her eyes. He liked that look; it made him wonder what sort of woman she was when she wasn't planning rebellions and risking her life (in more ways than one) to save people who needed it... people she'd never even met before. It spoke of a rare strength of character, of innate human kindness; quite simply, John Blake was a man intrigued by Alyth Gowan. He thought that maybe, if they survived this, he'd want to find out more about her.

"Oh, Conlin's full of surprises," she managed to state breezily with a straight-face. "I wonder if his brother Tommy's in town. Heaven help the thugs who mess with the two of them together," she winced. _Although Tommy might still be doing time for going AWOL._ She decided not to mention that little fact to John. Tommy Rierdin was an... acquired taste. She'd never had any issue with him the few, brief moments she'd met and interacted with him—but then again, Gotham hadn't been in a ruined, fear-ridden failed state ruled by a warlord. Madness and paranoia ran through the heart of Gotham like poison now, and nothing was certain.

Except maybe the look in John's eyes when they smiled. She could live with that.

"I'm gonna run up and change, be back in a few minutes."

She didn't wait for John's acknowledgment, trudging back to her room with bones aching and mind running in circles. She wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week—and maybe, just a little, drag John with her. But she had no chance for that, and forced the lingering grogginess back with sheer willpower. She sniffed herself, recoiled, and stared at the bathroom longingly.

A quick shower probably wouldn't lead to everybody's death, she reasoned. She didn't like taking them, in case the water got completely cut off, but so far it was holding. And she was desperately wanted to feel clean.

Hopping in the shower, she bit back a yelp of pain as icy needles stabbed at her relentlessly. Quickly, she shampooed and scrubbed herself halfway raw. Shivering and coughing, she dried herself with shaking hands. Shrugging on a slate blue sweater and jeans, she grabbed the first pairs of shoes—Converse—that she saw. She reached out for a coat, then stilled as she pulled it close to her.

It was John's, she knew that. It smelt like him, intangible scents like _honesty_ and _male_ and _anger_; she let herself hold it to her, just for a moment, and wished for simpler times. After a few heartbeats, she grabbed her bag and headed out. John was outside the door, startling her for a moment. The burning look in his eyes had her instantly coiling with tension. She tossed him the coat; he snatched it out of the air with nearly savage speed.

"Come on," he ordered. Frantically, she listened for Bane's men or the mobs—but the building was quiet, almost eerily so. There were no shouts or gunfire, no screaming. No... John wouldn't save her before everybody else, would he? … would he? She was low priority. Surely John realized that.

Alyth steadily ignored the little voice that whispered in the back of her head that she might risk everything to save him. That he most certainly _wasn't_ low priority. Uneasily, she set it aside to look at later. John could look after himself, she argued without heat, and the people under her were her proverbial sheep. The wolf that protected the flock—wasn't that irony.

She watched John with growing emotion that was in the same studio apartment with panic; he was tense with tightly wound rage, the anger rolling off him like shadows dancing under the sun. His shoulders were hunched, flexible steel. Concern was rapidly deteriorating into dread—the look in his eyes would've set Gotham on fire far more than Bane's nuclear bomb. She debated if she should take his hand—in a state of fury like that, she knew, she wouldn't necessarily want to be touched... but would also probably need to be grounded in reality.

Slowly, without shyness or fear, she wrapped her small hand around his much larger one; it was calloused, and warm. Even if she didn't manage to soothe him, she felt the terror ebbing—whatever it was, she had someone she trusted at her side. There was little more she could ask from the universe.

His eyes had been burning daggers when he glared at her; after a few heartbeats, the mad fury had receded into something saner. Quiet courage gently brushed around her bones, filling her to near the point of apathy. It was a nicer feeling than abject horror.

"Mrs. Markowitz! Mr—Sarah! Listen to me! It's fine, stop—"

As soon as Alyth deliberately let the door swing open (calculated with enough prolonged squeaking to make the most impact without being irritating) the entire room simply stopped. Sliding on the slightly bored, emotionally superior mask (that was, she knew from exasperating experience, the best for 'doing what the _fuck_ I say' mode), Alyth looked from Mrs. Rossi to Commissioner Gordon to Markowitz. There was a properly intimidating pause, then she spoke with a frighteningly calm and unflappable tone, "What, may I ask, has _fucking_ been going on?"

"My husband is dead," Sarah whispered brokenly, tears spilling down her face. Her skin had gone completely white; almost papery, like old skin pulled up too tightly over bleached bones. Her heart stuttered over a few beats.

"Mrs. Markowitz, I have been trying to tell you that I haven't had _any_ news on Hank! There are _three thousand_ cops down there, I hardly can be expected to talked personally to every one of them!" he half shouted, frustrated and worn-down.

Nikolai slipped inside the room, unnaturally light-footed for such a big man; he slid an unreadable look at Blake, who returned it in full measure. Their attention was broken as Alyth bit out a long, drawn out curse. It was strangled, full of bitterness and hatred. She could not name hatred for what, only that it was encompassing.

"You _motherfucker_," she uttered blackly.

She swung her fist to him, flashing from stillness—which could not, in any universe, be mistaken for _calm_ or _mercy—_into movement almost before anyone could react. Shouting in Russian, Nikolai reached out to grab her wrist. John only watched, curious despite himself to see how she'd react. He wouldn't try to force her away—either she would punch the Commish or she wouldn't. The man probably deserved it anyways, even if he'd only told the truth. Blake chose to have faith in her.

She could feel the whisper of touches from Nikolai's outstretched hand, the tiny hairs on her hand almost ragged in their hypersensitivity. She was breathing in short gasps, unable to fully take in air around the inky monster coiling around her heart. All she knew was furious, cold rage and the desire to rip the Commissioner apart. Shreds of control, of sanity, had managed to stop her fist a millimeter away from Gordon's face.

Swallowing loudly, she tore her gaze away, swiveling on her heels to land the brunt of her stare onto Markowitz.

"Listen to me, Sarah Markowitz. Your husband is _fine_. I won't have you obsessed with anything otherwise. Not. Another. _Word_."

All Markowitz could do was nod, eyes wide with fear. Commissioner Gordon's eyes were very bright, tears refusing to fall pooling in them. Nikolai looked stricken, as if he'd never quite seen her before. It was quickly replaced with shamed regret.

Beside him, Blake was paralyzed by the look in Alyth's eyes. They were maelstroms of green energy, flecks of tawny golds flickering through them like lightning. He could _see_ the adamant net of her will holding the rage at bay. It shouldn't be so fascinating... or arousing... to watch.

"I'm leaving now," Alyth muttered hoarsely. "Nikolai, make sure they don't do anything too _stupid_ while I'm gone. I'll try to be back before sunrise."

She paced off, the liquid rolling of her gait predatory—dangerous. Nikolai made no move to follow her, his expression tragic. Shaking his head in disappointment, John walked out and followed after her. His longer strides made quick work of catching up, hands tucked into his pockets. Her closed-in countenance, the Eye of Jupiter hurricanes in her twitching fingertips... it made his weary soul ache for her.

"Hey. Alyth. Alyth!" he demanded.

He placed his hand firmly on her shoulder, physically stopping her in her tracks. Alyth turned to him, staring up at him with startling, vivid intensity. His loam brown eyes were kind and calm.

"It's okay. No harm, no foul, right?" He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. His breath caressed her lips as she drank him in. "Right?"

The gently teasing, nearly _knowing_, smirk was almost too much. There should be laws against John Blake looking _that tempting_ around her.

"Come on, detective. Let's go out and... detect something," she sighed, giving up. She knew when she was beaten—when he used _that_ tone with _that_ look... hell, she'd be a sucker for just about anything.

"Sure," his eyes crinkled.

She didn't thank him for believing in her; there was no point. He knew. And, in some weird way, she was aware that he knew she knew.

He could live with that.

* * *

"They're coming," Alyth replied patiently. John rolled his eyes, letting out a quiet huff of exasperation. Chuckling, she remained leaning against the stone wall.

"They're not coming. They were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"Oh ye of little patience," she ribbed good-naturedly.

"Well, looka' wha' we have 'ere, brotha," Murphy crowed. "If it isna our old friends, Mistletoe and Rudolph."

"Aye, wonder wha' they could be wantin'," Connor smirked playfully. "Some _valuable information_ and assets?"

"Information is _always_ desirable," Alyth smiled genuinely back, "and so are assets. What do you have, black Irish?"

"Oooh, black Irish is it naow?" they sang. "Look at the lass go! Balls of steel, she's got. Well, you name an' we'll see what we can get ya."

"You alrigh' thar girlie? Look like somebody danced on yer ma's grave," Connor asked, shrewd eyes taking her in. Murphy's cautious, quizzical glance also studied her.

"Been a long day," she replied placidly, wide smile mirthless. Toothy. There was a warning in it, and one that the Finley brothers quickly heeded. Connor shot a dark, laconically curious look at Blake, who shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, I can tell ya that we got tha' information you'd been sniffin' afta," Connor started. "Bloody crazy," Murphy interrupted with a snort. Playfully punching his twin's arm, the elder twin resumed. "Amos Carter. Went to 'Nam, busted his leg up pretty badly. Got more military connections than'a general—his grandson was one of the football playas that died."

"Shit," Alyth whispered, rubbing her temples blearily.

"An naow he's wantin' his revenge on Bane. 'E's determined ta kill 'im," Murphy scowled. "All the old war vets are gettin in touch wi' 'im."

"And of the Brotherhood?" Alyth asked blandly, John's head lifting at the mysterious mention. What the fuck was the Brotherhood? Uneasily, he hoped they weren't some cult she was actually considering.

The wide, identically naughty looks on the twins' faces said everything.

"Finally, some good news," she breathed out, feeling a little weak-kneed. There'd always been a friendly rivalry between the police and the Brotherhood—she'd gambled that underneath it there was real camaraderie.

"What's the, uh, Brotherhood?" John asked quietly, poker face on.

Alyth turned her head to look at him, and smiled the first _real_ smile he'd ever seen from her. It was—dazzling. All the worry, all the fear, all of the burdens she carried... it was gone. Her whole face had lit up and transformed into a younger woman in happier days. He sucked in a breath, silently, simply absorbing her rare spontaneous joy. His eyes were very dark and warm as they mapped her glowing face.

"_Hope_, John."

She reached for his hand; her fingers were cold and soft, entwining between his with some unnameable, powerful emotion. As his larger hand surrounded hers, her green eyes fever bright, everything else disappeared. Gotham, Bane, the Finley brothers—nothing mattered but this moment, this ray of sunlight in their frozen hell.

And it was enough for both of them.


	7. Chapter 6

This chapter comes to you by our sponsors, XTC which doesn't work and liquor which does! Also brought to you by Hollywood Undead's song "City" which is the new official Gotham City anthem and a good dose of THC.

**_I'm begging you. For the love of Narnia, please review. _ **

Hope the action scenes turned out alright, I don't usually write them. Mr. Amos Carter is played by Danny Glover. Kudos to anyone who can spot the obscure quotes from other fandoms in this chappie.

**Warning****: this is not a happy chapter.** With that said, please enjoy the longest chapter of Odds yet. (And please, please, _please_ review. That's right, Ireland, Guatemala, UK, Norway, I'm talking to you. I see you on my traffic graph.)

* * *

"John, really, I'll be fine. It's not like I'm going alone—the Finleys are coming with me."

"Yeah, we'll keep an eye on her," Connor chuckled. "Maybe even two eyes," Murphy added, eyes sparkling. Rolling her eyes, Alyth smirked at John who looked suspiciously at the males.

"Look, there's no way I can go to St. Swithin _and_ visit the Brotherhood _and_ meet Mr. Carter. Go to St. Swithin, we can meet back at h—at the base." She caught herself before she called it home; she didn't want to get too comfortable there. Comfortable meant her guard was down—comfortable meant _danger_. And she needed to meet with the other resistance leaders, see if there was any information she needed to have. _Not knowing_ drove her crazy—there were too many variables, too many unpleasant outcomes without the right info. People could _die _if she gambled and failed.

In Bane's Gotham, information had become the closest thing to a deity she would chase after.

"Alright, just—be careful," he sighed, not able to argue against her point. He didn't need to go with them; trying to keep up with Gordon and the few scattered cops strung out across the city was enough to keep him occupied. On the way to St. Swithin he could check on the trapped cops too, try and give them some _hope_ while they were buried alive under their burning city.

Was this how Batman felt? Trying to keep up with everyone, trying to save as many people as he could? It was exhausting... and if he was honest, he'd never really felt so alive.

"Always," she promised, eyes flinty.

Awkwardly she wondered if she should just shake his hand, or... go. The dance they were doing had no steps, no instructions. There were times when the beat failed her—this was one of those times.

"Look after her," he ordered the twins, eyes hard with a promise of violence if something happened.

"We will," Murphy said in a rare moment of seriousness. Connor nodded his agreement, promising John they would. Blake wondered how he should say good-bye or if he should or... something. It was a little awkward for him, this rare not-knowing what to do when it came to Alyth.

_Fuck it_, Alyth shrugged mentally. She pulled him into a quick, tight hug; after a few deep breaths, she pulled away. For a second, she wanted desperately to kiss him, like she had in the alley. Then it passed and she brushed her lips across his cheek, gently as a prayer.

"_You_ worry me too, you know," she muttered. "Stay safe. I'm not there to get your ass out of trouble." John Blake, alone, in Gotham City worried her; she wasn't entirely sure what would be more in danger, Gotham or the detective.

"Be safe," he murmured into her hair.

Giving his hand a squeeze, she waved, striding off with the Finley brothers; they fell in line beside her like avenging saints. For all their questionable life choices, Blake knew that they would protect her. He watched her go, small stature unconsciously confident and back straight. He buried the memory inside himself, next to the laundry-and-applesauce space set aside for his mother. Waiting until they slipped from sight, he went on his way as well.

* * *

Alyth and the Finleys traveled in silence. They were going farther than Alyth had had a chance to go in post-Bane days; it made her nervous. She didn't know where the routes were or who patrolled them; she had to rely entirely on the surprisingly professional brothers. It wasn't that she didn't trust them—Alyth was simply used to being informed about her environment. Not knowing made her... twitchy.

Snow fell lightly around them, muffling their light footsteps and blanketing the world. For a second, Alyth could almost pretend that she was on a walk with friends, laughing and enjoying the uncomplicated experience of just _being together_. The moment passed when Connor stiffened, holding up an arm. Cursing in Gaelic, he turned to Murphy, who'd unceremoniously shoved Alyth behind some trash cans.

"Get her outta here," he ordered. Murphy hesitated, not wanting to leave his brother behind to die.

"I'm not helpless," Alyth coolly interjected. "I'm not some fucking damsel in distress you need to be worried about. I know how to shoot a gun, I'm not exactly clueless about fighting. My ex taught me how to defend myself," she shrugged. "So don't think I need to be protected just because I'm short, with tits and a vagina you'll never get into." The last was a rather tepid attempt at a joke.

Fighting back a snort of laughter, Murphy shrugged helplessly at Connor, who cursed again.

"Fine, but if we tell you to run, you _fucking run_ girlie," Connor bit out.

"Of course," she replied cheerfully. "Now what're we looking at?"

"Four men," Murphy quietly stated, peering from over a trash can. "Heavily armed. And—one of 'em is the right-hand to Bane."

Shivering, Alyth forced her suddenly open-ended nerves to settle. They would get through this. Too many people need them—_Gotham_ needed them.

And John was waiting for her.

"Fight or flight?" she whispered hoarsely, tensing.

Connor and Murphy sniped at each other—Spanish, she thought, catching a phrase here or there that she knew—and she waited as patiently as she could in the tense situation.

A shot exploded the ground beside them.

"FUCK! Go, go, go!" Murphy shouted, pushing her. Alyth was already running, the twins hot on her heels. The sniper was driving them towards the men, intent on trapping them. So far, the patrol didn't have any idea they were coming yet, though they'd know in a few minutes at most.

_Fight then_, she thought grimly, slipping something out of her pocket. Connor and Murphy had guns drawn, safeties off. Five, including the sniper, against three. Not exactly the best odds.

Alyth's smile was feral. _They'll have to be good enough. _The not-smile of John, that warm delicious pain, sparked in her heart, igniting her blood until she couldn't feel the freezing cold anymore—all she could feel was consuming wrath. Her world heightened and narrowed, perception sharpening with the spike in her adrenaline; she wouldn't, couldn't, die here. Just this once, the good guys (well, relatively speaking) would win. Nobody had to die.

As the Finleys opened fire on the squad from behind, she kicked the closest man in the back, snapping her elbow into his head as he was going down. Slamming her fist into his neck, withdrawing, her brass-knuckled fingers gleamed dully with blood. Rolling out of the way of a spray of gunfire—which fell onto their downed comrade instead—she sunk her teeth into another man's shoulder. Screaming, he tried to beat her off him, but her grip was deep and tight. Letting go, scrambling for his gun, he was caught unaware at the vicious right hook that snapped his jaw back. Groaning, he saw stars; a rabbit-punch to the head later, he was out for the count.

Both sides paused for a moment as Alyth lifted her head, eyes bright and wild, her darkling smile stained with blood. It unnerved everyone, this unholy Athena, this Grim Reaper dancing on graves. Cocking an eyebrow, she laughed bitterly, blood smeared across her cheeks horribly reminiscent of a _smile_.

"Here pussy, pussy, pussy," she sneered sarcastically.

It broke the moment, both sides erupting back into furious shooting. Forced to cover, Alyth watched the Finleys dispatch another member until only Bane's man was left. Harassed by the sniper, they turned their attention to the difficult target, leaving Barsad (_holy shit, she'd finally remembered his damn name!_) to... her.

Gulping slightly, her mental voice giving a weak pep talk, she held onto the anger. It slowly pushed back the terror into something more focused and malleable: black fury and violence. Relishing the way it hummed in her ears, her toes curled at the relief of letting herself... unhinge a little, eyes roved for backups, or escape routes, or just in an animal sense of paranoia. She didn't feel entirely _human_ anymore—something older and less tame. Apparently, Barsad thought so too, from the emerging clarity spreading across his face.

_Huh. I might stand a chance after all._

"Bane shouldn't write Gotham off so easily," she spat venomously.

His blue eyes were dreamily pitying, like Bane was already killing her.

"You can't escape him," he sighed, voice blearily warning.

"Try me," she jeered, inching lightly on the balls of her feet to one of the dropped guns. Tsking, he shook his assault rifle at her, almost playful. Grinding her teeth at being so flippantly written off, she desperately leaped behind an overturned car, gasping for air. A sharp sting and the smell of burning flesh coming from her left cheek was a sobering realizing that he'd almost gotten a headshot in.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," she whispered pathetically. "Blake, you're mighty fucking lucky I'm too god-damned stubborn to die."

"Turn yourself into the Court, miss! The ice is better than Bane. ...quicker too."

And that was the match to rekindle her fury. Sarah Markowitz deserved a hospital and her husband, not a drafty old apartment building in the Narrows held together by the likes of Alyth. Mrs. Rossi deserved her husband's ashes and baby grand piano; her son deserved the signed baseball his father had gotten for his 9th birthday, waiting for hours to get the baseball star to sign it. Nikolai deserved his small mechanics shop back—and John deserved a world his smile would be worthy of.

Biting her lip to keep from screaming—(probably) mostly of terror—it started to break through the skin, blood budding up. It didn't soften her appearance any; Barsad was startled (which was a rare thing to do indeed) by the sight of a bloodstained hellcat, the wolf with the bloody maw, death in her eyes. She managed to get up close enough to knee him in the balls, scratching at his face with her nails. There were a lot of things that Barsad was prepared to deal with (or not deal with, perhaps) but a ferocious, pretty young woman lunging at him with her mouth obscenely wide-open to lock him in a death-grip was most definitely _not_ one of them.

"Fuck," he whimpered, watching wide-eyed as she snatched up a crowbar; the blow to the head came almost like relief. Besides, he was going to have trouble enough explaining it _the right way_ to Bane. The man could sniff out a lie like a damned bloodhound. Barsad would just... edit a little of his reality while he slept.

Hunched over, she clutched her stomach, staggering away. She tried to make it behind something, but her body had other decisions. Alyth threw up everything in her stomach, which was thankfully little since she'd skipped breakfast. She was sweating and trembling all at once, nauseous, vision swimming—and her face hurt like a _bitch_. It wasn't an experience she wanted to repeat soon.

"Fuckin' hell," Murphy swore. "Jesus, girlie, what the _fuck_ did you do to them?"

"Shoulda known," Connor grinned mirthlessly, "she's a _fuckin'_ berserker's cousin. Animalistic but _smart—_smart and ruthless. Just sees that bright, shining line from A to B. When were you goin' ta tell us that, Alyth? Huh?" he shouted, irate. People like Alyth Gowan tended to see people in cold, rational terms like _acceptable casualty_ or _asset—_there wasn't much room for mercy or kindness in the business of survival.

"Tell you what?" she stiffened, glad she was facing away from them. She wasn't sure what expression was on her face—she didn't know she was healing any more than she knew what hurt more: the betrayal that they'd consider her some sort of monster or the wearied curiousity why it had taken them so long. Alyth had the tendency to make people... uncomfortable... during and after a fight. She fought to win, and part of winning was being unpredictable. People _never _saw the biting coming; it was a trick that had almost always worked for her in the few skirmishes she'd had with wanna-be robbers and purse-snatchers.

Or the occasional pedophile parent.

Her joints ached, feet protesting every movement. Her right hand throbbed, feeling sprained from the force behind her blows. The sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh rang repeatedly in her ears—the taste, the feeling of a man's warm blood trickling into dry mouth... Revulsion surged through her and she was immediately sick again.

"How many fights did ya get in, huh, growin' up? One? _None_? Cuz—cuz—cuz you _knew_ this little black monster lurkin' about yer soul was just—just gonna _get out_? And that makes you _afraid_," Connor intoned lowly, tight-lipped and voice harsh.

"I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about," she panted.

"The fuck you _don't_!" Murphy snarled. "You _know_ there's this, this _volcano_ of _rage_ inside you. I'll bet ya ex didna have ta teach ya much."

She closed her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and counted for ten more seconds before she finally spoke.

"It got us out of this mess, didn't it?" she pointed out flatly.

Forcing herself to straighten, she steadily met their accusing gazes; she held them until they became uncomfortable and looked away. Swallowing back pained guilt, she pulled out a bottle of water from her pack, rinsing the blood out of her mouth. Spitting, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, disgusted and more than a little alarmed when it came back bloodier. Nearly panicking, she used her scarf to wash her face and hands clean. Her skin was nearly raw by the time she was done, exacerbating the bullet's nick across her cheek. Wincing a little at the sharp, forgotten pain, she tenderly poked at it.

Alyth missed the raised-eyebrow looks the twins gave each other, so concentrated was she cleaning her scrapes and wound. Cuffing her lightly on the shoulder, Connor nodded to Barsad's prone body.

"You might want to step back to keep your shoes clean," he warned, not unkindly.

Wide green eyes stared up at him from a too-pale face, steel gradually lacing through them. They knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

"Absolutely not," she hissed, glaring daggers. Thinning her lips into hard lines to avoid grinding her teeth again, she fought back the exhausted need to cry. Everything was so _wrong_ now; Gotham, Bane—this whole awful, rotten world where people hated and fought and _killed_. Wasn't death _enough_? Wouldn't it ever just be _enough_ to enjoy their miserable lives while they could?

Nobody could escape time. Not even the Batman.

"There has been quite _enough_ death here today!" she managed to choke out, half-strangled. "We are _not_ **murderers**, Finley. And if you're going to _be_ one, then you can just _go fuck yourself_ and _join __**Bane**_for all I _fucking care_!" she shouted, snarling in shame and grief. "You want to know the difference between us and the—the _machines_? We _bury_ our dead. But _no one_ is coming to bury you. Not if you do this."

The quiet brokenness of her tone was what sealed the whole nightmarish ordeal; nobody should sound so dead while still alive. They were very suddenly ashamed of their willingness to murder—they were the very things they'd accused Alyth of being. Alyth was a born killer, yes... but she hadn't been the one to kill today. She'd held the bloodthirsty beast back, keeping it at bay for another tomorrow.

"Bane'll know we're ou' there," Murphy winced.

"W'll naow, the way I figur' it out ta be, he'll know we're comin' one way or anotha'. At least this way we could send a _message_." Connor was careful not to look at her, scuffing the body with his shoe; the look on his face was reminiscent of stepping in dog crap. Alyth's face crumpled into a grim movement of lips, motioning for a knife. Tossing her one, they watched with horrified fascination while she carved a simple drawing into Barsad's right hand—a half circle, with a long straight line below it and four short straight lines radiating from the half circle like a halo.

"And wha' the _hell_ is that supposed to be?" Connor cringed.

Lifting her hard, unflinching gaze to him, she smiled without joy and uttered a single word.

"_Dawn_."

* * *

Blake was on his way out when the man stopped him. The stranger's face was calm, almost zen-like, without losing any mental sharpness. He was wary almost instantly, shields going up; no man looked like that unless he was a fighter of some shape or fashion. From the patient air he wrapped himself in, John hazarded the man was a mountain-type—the kind of fighter who _wore you down_, who won by virtue of _outlasting_ his opponents.

"Hey. I'm Conlin. Physics teacher," he introduced himself evenly. Blake shook his hand firmly, wondering what Conlin's play was. These days, they _always_ had a play.

"Blake. Not a physics teacher," he replied smoothly, smirking lightly.

Ignoring the joke, Conlin's demeanor was earnest, serious. "I heard Alyth Gowan's hanging around with you. Keep an eye out for her, would you? She helped out my family a lot when we first moved to Gotham. She's a good kid."

Unbidden, the memory of how she smelled—all sunshine, honeysuckle and jasmine—filled his senses. _"I'm angry too."_

"Yeah, she is," he agreed, eyes crinkling into a not-smile.

Conlin searched his eyes; some of the tension left him as he found what he'd hoped he'd see there. Patting him on the back, he nodded good-bye, returning to his frightened, courageous students, telling the story of how man had dared to stand up to gods. Blake took in the bustle of St. Swithin—people talking and laughing in low voices, boys playing, human kindness reaching out to transform _survival_ into _life_. And in that moment, John Blake was home again, before the string of foster parents, surrounded by his boyhood friends and the simplicity of childhood.

It passed. He left.

He was still glad he'd came.

* * *

Nikolai sat with the pregnant woman; she was delirious with pain—none of the painkillers they had scraped together could be safely taken with her pregnancy. So she listlessly wept and whispered in Yiddish to the walls; until he couldn't stand it, making him sit and visit with her to soothe her ceaseless fussing.

"We were gonna name him Samuel. Sammy, my Hank would've called him. He was so... so excited it was a boy. He couldn't wait to teach him baseball," she admitted hoarsely, wanting to just _stop being in pain_ for a little while.

"Mrs. Markowitz, we don't even know your husband, if he is dead. Why do you believe he's gone?" Nikolai replied softly, wearily; he had said these words many, many times before.

She stilled, finally—_blessedly—_silent. Her dark eyes were sunken in, circles like bruises beneath them. Appetite gone, she'd lost enough weight to look a little gaunt; the over-all image reminded him eerily of a corpse. _Dead-eyes_, his uncle would have called them.

"_Do you know, Nikolai, why people burn more in dark times?"_

_His placid, taciturn uncle, who bottled his emotions up with the careful precision of a miser,_ _asked him the question again._

"_No, uncle," a teenage, freshly-orphaned Nikolai whispered._

"_Think of worry, of yesterdays and of tomorrow, like scraps off this giant, ah, quilt. The more scraps you carry, the bigger a target and the better you burn. So stop your brooding, nephew, or else you'll carry the whole effing blanket your whole life, and make mine miserable in the mean."_

"Put the scraps down, Sarah," he pleaded, feeling too old and too tired to keep doing this anymore. This frantic survival they tried to substitute for _life_ had worn him down.

"God has rarely been kind to me, Mr. Drakovitch. In the past two years, _every single person_ I have loved has died. My best friend committed suicide, my grandparents all succumbed to cancer, my _family_ was killed by a drunk driver... Hank was all I had _left_. My son means _everything_, do you understand me? He is God to me now. I am utterly lost without him."

Shivering, Nikolai felt the stirrings of real foreboding at the ominous words. There was weight in them, something heavy and ancient. They made his mind uneasy, his heart lost to lamenting. The world was such an unfair place, that evil men lived and women wished to die.

"I'll go make you some tea," he mumbled quietly.

On the way there, he was forced to stop. Weeping into his hands, he slid back-first down a wall, strength utterly spent. Calloused hands shoved a bottle at him, breaking his heaving sobs. He took a large swig of it without thinking, the burn of vodka familiar enough to bring him back to more stable ground.

"I figured you could use it," Blake shrugged casually, waiting a moment to see if Nikolai needed help before continuing back to the communal kitchen downstairs.

"I'll go with you," he muttered, hastily wiping his eyes, taking another abnormally large gulp. "I need to make a cup of tea."

"Sure."

It was a testament to the stress Nikolai had bent under that he felt no embarrassment at being caught vulnerable by the detective. Somehow, to his Russian brain, it made perfect sense. The world was, after all, incredibly unfair.

* * *

The three stood in front of the run-down home, which looked like it had seen better days long before Bane threatened the scene. Knocking firmly, Alyth twitchily darted her head around to make sure they hadn't been followed. After the fight, she felt that a (un)healthy dose of paranoia was in order. One fight was _quite_ good enough for her, thank'ee kindly.

Gratingly, the door inched back. A hard, leathered body ushered them in, limping heavily on one foot. Most of his leg below the left knee seemed to be gone, explaining the pained gait. The pegleg dragging along made her, inappropriately and absurdly, want to stick an eyepatch on him. Alyth chalked it up to shock.

"Mr. Amos Carter?" she inquired pleasantly, smoothly. Don't give them an opening and most of the time you've already won the battle. "I understand that you are rather _uniquely_ experienced and connected to help the fight against Bane."

"Yeah. I'm Amos Carter," he smiled, a touch off. "The bastard killed my grandson. My—my grandson, he... he was the only family I had left. His parents didn't want anything to do with a useless old drunk like me. But James, my James—he don't judge me or accuse me. He just god damned _loved _me," he whispered, whiskey-rough voice catching. "And Bane took my little boy, my little grandson, away from me. That boy had a scholarship—he was gonna _be_ something! That _monster_ took all my love away. All I'm left with is _hatred_, Miss Gowan. That's what I'm goin' to be givin' Bane. Fair trade. He took all my love, he get all my hate. And I'm _real good_ at hatin', miss."

To anyone else, the words would have been troubling. Bothersome. But both the Finleys and Alyth knew how to hate pretty decently as well; his words were reassuring to the issue of his dedication. They'd found their man.

"Mr. Carter, as you know, I'm Alyth Gowan. I'm a kid's librarian, down in the Narrows. Or, rather, I used to be that. I'm not exactly that anymore. As we guessed, the Brotherhood is willing to join us. Will the vets?" she asked seriously.

"Bane's killed a lot of grandsons and granddaughters. Way we look at it, dick measuring contests of who's in charge don't work for jack shit. Time's not on our side, honey; 'sides, we're all in this damn hole together."

"Mr. Carter," Alyth sighed, in relief that the whole wretched experience wasn't a waste, "may I welcome you to the Resistance?"

"Resistance? Gotta have a name for it, Miss Gowan. History'll need a name."

"Dawn," Murphy muttered. "Welcome to, ah, Dawn."

Amos stared at the dark-haired gunman for a moment before wheezing out an incredulous chuckle.

"Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd see an Irishman with bigger, brassier balls than my old sarge. Boy, I _like_ you. Come back in a few days, and I'll have more information and an idea of our resources. Peterson keeps swearing the Army armory's in lock-down, the bastards can't get in it."

"A... Army armory?" she whispered faintly.

"Old farts like us still got some uses after all, looks like," Carter grinned toothily. "I'll have an answer either way by the time you get back."

"I, um... yeah, of course. We'll be back in a few days with a better idea on our side, as well. Stay safe, Mr. Carter."

"Didn't you know, Miss Gowan? I'm immortal. I can't die until I drag _him_ down to hell with me. You just worry on after yo'self."

He smiled. It was ghastly, something dead possessing a mockery of life. Stammering out an excuse, she ran. She ran and she ran and she ran, until her body forced her to stop. The Finley brothers leisurely strolled up, but sweating. It took her a moment, blinking tears away, before she realized that they were in front of her apartment building. Her feet had led her safely home.

"Come inside?" she pleaded. "Let me give you food, water—_something_. Let me prove to myself that I can give something good still, that good still _exists_."

"Alyth, lass... you don't need us or something shiny," Connor nodded towards her brass knuckles. "To remind you of your incorruptibility and courage."

"All you need for tha' is a mirror," Murphy finished gently.

Alyth felt very small and very lonely; the _grief_ in his eyes, the awful _shattering_ of his spirit... it was unbearable. How could the world go on with something like this in it? How could it _bear_ to? She hadn't stopped to think, this whole warzone occupation, and now it was all catching up to her.

Nobody should have to endure such sadness.

"I don't feel that way right now," she admitted lowly.

"None of us do, all tha time," he soothed. "The only thing we can do, is make it through and try ta—ta keep it from happenin' to somebody else."

Smiling weakly, she bid them farewell. Stumbling through the halls, she blindly followed the autopilot of her footsteps. They steered her towards her rooms, dragging her up stairs; she ignored the concerned or demanding shouts of the others, passing Nikolai like a ghost. He called her name; it went unheard, unable to pierce the fog around her brain.

"Alyth. Alyth!" John snapped, concerned. Shaking her lightly, she blinked, turning to look at him. His eyes widened at the sight of her bloodied, cut face; he cursed, leading her into their room, slamming the door behind him with his foot.

"You snapped me out of it," she reassured him. "I'm fine. Really."

"Alyth, I know a near-miss from a gun when I see it. What the hell _happened_ out there?" he demanded, dabbing some antiseptic on there. Hissing in pain as it burned, she attempted to shrug it off.

"We ran into a patrol. Nothing we couldn't handle."

"Looks like you almost didn't," he muttered. She winced at the tone.

"There _might_ have maybe, possibly, been a sniper involved too."

He stared at her for a moment, finally letting out a long, whistling _fuck_. His gaze was angry but heated—it electrified her. "And Barsad too."

John could admit that he lost it, just a little bit, at that admission. He felt he had a right to though. After he'd stopped punching the couch and screaming into a pillow, he could face her again. She scrunched her nose at the wrinkled pillow and abused couch with dry curiousity.

"Okay... anything else you want to tell me?"

"We might have access to the as-yet-unravaged Army base's new armory," she mildly informed him.

"I... that's... Um."

"Yeah. I know. Same here."

Forcing her to sit on the couch for a bit, wrapping a blanket around her trembling form, he fell into the soothing routine of making terrible coffee. He watched her carefully over the bar, tossing her some stale poptarts to get her blood sugar up.

"Alyth—this is _dangerous_, what we're doing. You're pushing yourself past your limits," he scowled as he handed her the steaming mug.

She set it down to cool on the battered, cheap do-it-yourself coffee table. John followed suit, pulling her into the comforting strength of his arms. She stiffened, then slowly melted.

"I knew that going in," she whispered softly, steadily. "I was prepared for danger, or death, or both. I'm not afraid, John."

"You're doing _everything_, Alyth! Supply hunting, playing doctor and shepherd for _over fifty people_ too _weak_ to survive on their own. You're leading a Resistance, carving symbols into Bane's _right-hand man_. What if one day you don't come back? What will happen then?" he pulled away, raising his voice until he was half-shouting.

"Then the world will go on," she closed her eyes, smiling with secret sadness. "And I'll hope Nikolai will keep them alive."

"What if _I_ don't want it to go on without you?" he shouted hoarsely. "That is... It's awfully unfair, to you."

"The world's an unfair place," she hiccuped. "I'm no exception."

"What if I want you to be?" he whispered, frustrated. Angry.

Opening her eyes, the unnamed emotion poured out of her heart, spilling out through his burning gaze. She wasn't sure who moved first, or if they'd moved at the same time—but it didn't matter, because they were _kissing_, and the heated, unbearable sweetness of it almost broke her heart. She wanted this kiss, as much as he wanted it. Grabbing his jacket to kiss him harder, she groaned softly at the feel of his tongue slipping inside her mouth, tasting her. Suckling on his lip for a moment, he seized the opportunity, pulling her to him to thoroughly ravish her. His hand cupped her breast, the warmth of it teasing her raggedly, and they both paused for breath. Their faces stayed close, breath mingling; idly, she wasn't entirely sure where she began and he ended. She jumped away, as if distance could lessen any of the burning mutual desire that lay between them; she touched her swollen, scorched lips in wonder.

John struggled to get himself under control, hoping Alyth would ignore his hard-on. He hardly cared if it offended her—he knew that it wouldn't, not if that damp spot on his pants leg was what he thought it was. She affected him, and was affected by him. Whatever this was, this something they refused to name growing and blossoming slowly between them, it was mutual. Balanced. It evened the odds a little.

"Alyth, I-" he started.

Pounding on the door interrupted him. He made it to his feet, Alyth already scrambling over the couch to fly open the door. Nikolai stood there, panting.

"Mrs. Rossi—the baby is coming, for truly, this time. Solnyshka... it will be a bad birth."

Stumbling for a bit as new fear and stress waved over her, she groaned in exhaustion. Turning to John, helplessly apologetic, he nodded reassuringly.

"Go."

Mouthing thanks, she dashed off. He finished both cups of coffee rather than see them wasted. Washing up, he stretched out on the couch in a fitful doze for a few hours. After the fourth time he'd woken up, he realized that he couldn't sleep with her in the middle of a crisis. Wandering downstairs, he joined Nikolai outside the makeshift delivery room's door. Gordon bore them coffee twenty minutes later, Markowitz's screaming keeping him from sleep.

"How much longer?" he asked around a cigarette.

"Soon, I think," Nikolai tiredly replied. "I hear her, sometimes, shouting orders."

He shook his head, muttering about silly, beautiful women's stubborness. His faded blue eyes were very bright and very sad. Silence fell over them again, the screams reaching a crescendo until there was one last, desperate order to _push_ and then-

-then there was quiet.

"_Borze moi_," Nikolai groaned. "No, solnyshka, no... I am so sorry. So sorry," he whispered.

Gordon's face fell, wiping his glasses. John's wary gaze glanced between them.

"I don't hear the baby," he started.

There was a high, keening wail, an animal dying in pain. Quietly, the door opened; just as quietly, the door closed again. Alyth was ashen-faced, hair obscuring her face.

"He didn't make it. The baby—Samuel was stillborn."

"I'll go to her," Gordon offered softly, slipping inside.

Vision swimming, eyes full of tears she felt she had no right to shed, she collapsed—a marionette with her strings severed. Giving a startled yelp, Blake reached her before she could crack her head open. Struggling to hold onto consciousness for just a few seconds longer, she cupped his handsome face into her small hands still covered with birthing gore.

"I think I want to be that exception," she smiled, brokenly "I want to say it now in... in case I don't get the chance... later..." Her whisper trailed off as unconsciousness won the first battle of the war it'd been waging against her for the last several hours.

Nikolai watched him press an intimately gentle kiss against her forehead, carrying her with hidden strength back upstairs. He wanted to hate him, this man who loved the woman he loved—but he couldn't. He was too worn out for jealousy. He listened to the woman grieving, Gordon's steady voice telling her all the times Hank Markowitz had saved his or a buddy's life. How he was a good man, and that was why he was going to make it back to her. And they'd mourn, together, but eventually they'd move on. It wouldn't always hurt like this, he promised. Nobody knew if she listened.

Taking a long pull of vodka, he staggered off to his room to weep again in private.

* * *

"John?" she sleepily murmured in the middle of him tucking her in.

"Yes?" he asked, gently. She clutched his jacket in her tiny fingers, childlike.

"Stay," she begged. Shushing her, he pushed off his shoes and his stripped to his boxers. Changing into pajama pants and a ratty sweatshirt, he slipped beside her, keeping distance between them. Having none of it this time, not after the day they'd had, she tugged at him until he rolled over, facing her.

"I'm scared," she admitted, in a small voice still thick with fatigue.

"I know. I'm scared too," he brushed back her hair, fingers lingering to stroke her face.

"No, not for me," she blinked at him owlishly, eyes open and honest... if heavy-lidded. "I'm scared of losing _you_, John. I think it might make me go a little crazy."

His throat closed up at that half dead-asleep statement, glad she was really out this time because he was unable to speak. Pulling her close to him, her soft breath huffing against his chest, he shuddered with the effort of keeping his cries silent.

He dreamed of laundry-detergent picnics on sunny afternoons, filled with laughter and jasmine, while the dead pause of a breath never uttered lingered like mold in the background.


End file.
